It burnt him. Stung at his open eyes. And even if he found he could blink away the sharp grains, the room still looked odd, far away. He felt tired of the effort of being watchful and now the edges of everything hurt him. He blinked again. What was sand, what was dust? He felt his face was starting to crack into dirty, misleading lines. He was not old. He was more than old. More than dead too.
More sand came in: the french window had been left open. Tiny gasps of laughter crept in from the garden. This had once been a house for jokes. Now it was a house for posturing parades.
Appearances had always been deceptive. A small hand carrying some piece of grey cotton began to wipe away the deposits of sand that were already burying him in this plaster, blinding his eyes. A terrible sandy shroud without the holiness or disciples.
Was this a kind hand? It felt kind. It felt competent and sure. Each circular movement revealed more of his face back to him, back to the room, back to the world. He had a face not to be trifled with. The red plasticine figure gently moved the salt crystals to the corner of his mouth. Two pairs of eyes watched each other. Speaking would be slow, careful and sure.
