My Mother Died In My Arms
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.