I arrive at the 
front door of a house
that holds 
the dynamics
of family 
as pervasive
and as deep
as a bloodline. 

At the doorstep I
witness the
lines of 
victim-hood
blended with 
the incessant 
need to be right.

In the doorway 
I take a breath 
in anticipation.

I notice the sand 
that's been carried in on 
the feet of 
my beloved
family members.

I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my own
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower.

I wonder
about the
rifts 20 years 
in the making 
and what they've
done to the floors 
of this home.

They seem as
ubiquitous
and invisible
until felt
as the sand that
found its way
into the 
fabrics
of this family.

The floors take the brunt of it
scratched and rubbed down
until layers of coating 
are exposed raw
until the foundation of this 
home cannot 
hold the weight
of what we bring to it.

At the doorway
I look inside.
I see my mom and 
her sister sitting 
at the kitchen table.

I wonder what it is
I do not know
about the sand 
between their own toes
particles they may not even
feel anymore 
since its become
ingrained 
into the way things are. 

I don't want to feel
the sand
on the bottoms of my feet
or on the seat of my chair
or the floor of the shower. 

Sand belongs on the
shoreline 
where the ocean can
do with it 
as she pleases.

Here, the sand 
clogs and scratches
it irritates and hollows.

I take another breath
remove my shoes.
I wash my feet of the
abrasive 
and the stubborn.

I take care not to step 
in the sand
my family 
carries in.