Breezing Up

It’s coming. We denied it before, but now we know for sure that it’s coming. I wear an itchy straw hat to keep the sun from burning my face and neck. Another gust of wind blows sand into my eyes, stinging them. I blink back tears and concentrate. I glance at my brother. He too has small tears in the corner of his eyes. The rope on the bucket digs into my hand. It hurts but I need to bring the water to ma. We need more. This is my twelfth trip to the well but we aren’t ready yet. We need to get ready. I pass the familiar houses until I get to my own. I stop. My brother stops too. Together, we bring the large, wooden bucket inside. We set it down carefully so we don’t spill. We spilled last time. Pa hit us. We can’t spill again. I pick up another bucket with my raw hands. I could see my brother cradling his hand. We step outside. Ouch. The hot sand burns my feet, sticks scratch the bottom. If possible, the sun is hotter than before. Oh no. The wind picks up and we turn our faces away. It’s here. It’s finally here. We drop the bucked and rush inside. “Ma! Pa! Help! It’s here! Quick!” I slam the door and begin to put wet rags around the cracks. “Ma! Pa! Hurry!” The windows rattle in their frames. I put rags around them too. The sandstorm has come. It’s here. It’s definitely here.

Inspired by Winslow Homer's painting