It’s not quite the kind of grit blown into the eye by wind, only released by flooded tears.

It’s not the sort of grit pushed by pebble between sole and sandal, chafing defenseless flesh.

It’s not even the brand of grit landed on tooth from un-rinsed seafood-in-shell, positioning just right for the sharp bite.

It is the type of grit embedded in the raw and tender, eroding what cannot be flushed, ripping scabs from crusted wounds.

Familial grit so deep, unbearable silence leaks from every remembered crevice, every awkward attempt at recovery.

One can lean in only so far, numb, enduring grit gnawing— in the eye, under foot, in the mouth— gnawing at the swollen edge’s of a child’s memories.

From lineage too broken and bruised, all one can bear is to liberate the guilt.