I want to tell them about the cornfield behind my childhood home, that dry summer my neighbor Sam Foster mowed his yard into dirt like a man on a sacred mission. Even in the dirt patch his front yard was becoming, I want to say, his lines were unshakably straight. I want to tell them about when it finally rained and how the corn groaned. I want to tell them how, from my childhood bed, I could hear the corn growing. The sound, something like brittle bones breaking in a child’s hospital ward.