I am Petrina girdled by these plains chosen for my atonement. Today, like yesterday, I watch dust-devils far off between the kopjes hesitate, then find a sudden fury. They come towards us faltering, already losing purpose. Some last grains simper on the shutters.
My skede’s herfsdroog. I want to live outside my skirts, outside my thoughts; but grandma perches in her ancient chair in the middle of the passage rocking, rocking like a spider.
As I pass, her grip is precise as pincers.
The sheep are dying one by one of bloedpens. I remember being tricked into rejoicing by the sight of the yellow flowers they ate. What is the point to this, no matter what grandma says. Outside my window the windmill rattles a decrepit staccato and no black clouds build.
I think of that stillborn moment after the thunder sounds. I remember once, caught in between all these years of heat and bluster. I think about it often. I think hard to reach little.
I think I still have rain somewhere in my heart.