Yedira coughed as the dry, russet soil invaded her lungs. She had spent hours spitting into the dirt, patting precious seeds with a parched prayer. She sucked her sallow cheeks, pumping her tongue, but no saliva would come.
The alderman had given her the packet, seeds rattling, light and full of promise. “We all must make sacrifices,” the alderman had instructed, wiping Yedira’s face with his black sleeve.
*
“I’ve seen you in these fields, Yedira. You work harder than the others. You give more of yourself. For the others.”
“It is good to give,” Yedira replied, the refrain perched on her tongue from years of service.
The alderman nodded. “You could give us the rain we need to end this drought.”
Yedira did not look up, her eyes focused on the dirt lining her cuticles. “What can I give?”
The alderman smiled, holding out his hand toward her. “May I?”
Yedira was not sure if she had nodded before he slipped his hands around her head, his thumbs anointing her eyelids. He lay her down in the field, her eyes crusted shut, his hands cresting her ribs. She felt her skin crack, desiccate, his mouth siphoning the moisture from her.
*
“It’s raining,” Yedira heard the alderman announce to the congregation, his voice carrying across the valley. But as she lay in the field, papery cornhusks greening with each drop of water, Yedira could not cheer. Her hands held fast in mud, her body a shriveled weed. No tears would come.
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