The Dust Storm

The wind was picking up, shooting little needles of dirt in my neck and my face. I pulled Grandpa's body over the brittle grass, which crunched under my boots. His mouth opened with a swarm of flies sipping whatever moisture was left on his tongue and lips. Mama saw me through the kitchen window, came out with a glass of water. It sounded like I'm afraid I will not be able to forget.

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