The seed you planted has refused to sprout. All you have to show for two years of labor is a blank piece of earth, a fertile absence, the ground, diligently watered, turning to mud.
Desperate to know where it all went wrong, you bring a trowel, start to delve. You dig and dig, but all you find is pebbles. Was that the cause? Did you plant stones and dream of growing mountains?
You sow matches in the wind, wait for the sun to come up.
You run frantic with grief. You are in such a hurry to get away you forget to wash your hands.
Twenty years later, in a foreign country, you open your wrinkled palms to the rain, and the smell of home blossoms under your nose.