The sun did come up that day, but a guy couldn’t make out the outline from our house. You could see a haze, sure enough, but that golden ball was just a dull circle in the blackened sky. The oblong yellow, dampened by dust, was something like a symbol of everything that had happened.
They didn’t tell you these things when you moved out here. They tell you a bit about the winters, but that’s all. Then the winters hit, and you can’t think of anything worse. The cold moves like a ghost. It runs with the wind; it pushes into your bones. You can’t imagine a cold like the kinds you get out here.
Then the winter fades away. The sun, like a savior, would rise every day to push the bluster farther and farther away. Then comes the wind again, this time with dust in its hands. It tosses the sand and dirt about like a kid in a sandbox.
It got everywhere. It would find its ways into the most unforseen cracks. Our house was identical to the out of doors, except that there were still four quaint walls around us. We were breathing ground everyday.
We couldn’t see and couldn’t breathe. We just waited to die.
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