White blossoms float languidly in the lily pond. Tadpoles and minnows teem underneath the dark surface, and frogs sit fat in the green rushes. We bring baskets of pink and purple flowers to decorate great grandma’s grave. We climb the hill to the old water pipe, tiptoe, and turn the knob. It creaks and begins to shake. Water splashes our upturned faces, fills our shoes, spills over our pails, soaking the ground beneath us. We dance in the puddles and slosh through the mud, dragging our pails behind us.

evening rain—
that peculiar scent
of hyacinth