My Mother Died In My Arms

Photo by Tim de Groot on Unsplash

Walking along the desert, on the scorching sand, my hands held with Mother’s, forming an interlocking chain of fingers. Mine was smooth and well-kept, whilst hers were rough and torn. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my forehead, but thermoregulation did not serve as a respite against the unbearable heat. Water and food ran out 10 hours ago, and we were still on our lost voyage to find the nearest village.

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