035/365 09/25/2025

Sometimes the mines churned day and night, the rumble of boring machines and labored breaths of men moved the ground and floorboards and entered our dreams. Became lumbering beasts silhouetted against darkening skies, all muscle and teeth. The breaths our breaths as we raced to escape their churning, devouring maws. And waking, the fine dust in the air would have clouded our noses. Even far away as the village. The smell of diesel, dust, the hard-extracted guts of the earth.

Mother came mornings with a damp cloth and rimmed our nostrils, wiped the corners of our mouths. The worn, damp rag ring-marked and streaked with the red-black chalk-like dust.