Occasions of Dust

By Theresa Dozier

Dust. It was in the gunfire that echoed through the neglected home of some mother.

“No!” she screamed. Her weeping every night had become the lullaby of the city.

Dust was on my brother’s dinner plate.

“He’ll come back when he’s ready,” Mom cried. He hadn’t been home in five years, but she kept a place for him at the kitchen table.

Dust was on the navy blue jumpsuit folded under my bed.

“Your navy blue jumpsuit will only be worn on visiting day and will be immediately pressed afterwards,” the Warden wrote.

I’m still waiting to have my jumpsuit pressed.