A granular particle

Grit had its way, fouled my appliance— as surely as a pea stole sleep from a royal girl or an errant nail saw a kingdom lost or a swallowed fly, the coroner said, caused an elderly woman’s death. Grit halted my hoover, so recently bought— hefted below to the cellar where plasterboard walls almost meet floor, my Dirt Devil vac choked on the city’s foundational grit that bore up the Reverend C.J. Street penning sermons here in my home, the 1911 census reports, ousted now by my keyboard and mouse. Carboniferous grit, layered in a river’s expanding bed, buried by limestone, coal, mud, trodden by dinosaurs, quarried from sandstone scarps, up to the task of shredding toughened grain, grit eroding downstream, finding its way.

Jenny Hockey