Salt

At dawn, Nara stood on a salt flat, watching dark clouds crawl toward a distant hill. In both hands sat a clay jar. Not a drop lay within. For six months, rain had lost its way, and now Nara sought a drink for a small, stubborn fig.

That fig had grown from a pip which Nara's dad had brought from far south. Now Dad was dust, and its last twig hung limp. Nara could not bring him back. But that bit of bark might still outlast this long, harsh drought.

At a dry ditch, a man sat atop a cart full of shining pots. "Turn back," said that man. "Storms on that hill bring hail, not rain." "So I'll catch hail." His laugh was sharp. Nara did not stop.

By noon, black clouds hid all sunlight. Wind shook Nara's cloak. Rocks slid downhill. At last, a bright bolt split sky from sky, and hail struck with a roar. Nara sank low, guarding that jar with both arms. Cold lumps struck skin, drawing blood. Still, Nara caught fistfuls and thrust all into clay.

On that slow walk back, hail shrank to slush, and slush slid to liquid. Nara shook from cold. At dusk, that man still sat by his cart. Without a laugh now, his hand shot up, palm out. "Did you find rain?" "No," Nara said. "I found a way."

In a small yard, Nara dug a hollow around that fig. Cold drops slid from clay to soil. By morning, its last twig stood upright. A tiny bud clung to its tip, bright as dawn. Nara sat down in soft mud, smiling. Dad was still dust. But his fig would grow, and for now, that was all Nara could ask.

Word count: 292