She watched the morning frosts go from daily to weekly and vanished altogether, and as the rain pivoted from the horizontal to the vertical to announce the arrival of summer. On days when the cloud yielded to the sun, she could leave her coat in the house and stand over the mopane seed.
That summer, she gave a moment to the mopane seed every day. Sometimes she pulled up the dandelions and groundsel that tried to take its patch for themselves. Most days, she just looked for the shoot that didn’t come.
The frosts returned. Some days, a fusillade of rain rattled against her back without touching her front. Some days, she shoved snow off the mopane seed until her hands were numb with the snowmelt saturating her wool gloves.
Next year, she didn’t like her pink dress anymore. She wore jeans and a black denim jacket, and longed for the day when she could switch denim for leather and add the boots. She still returned to the mopane seed, but now only once a week. By autumn that year, it was once a month.
She knew it wouldn’t grow but when she remembered the pink dress, she knew that she’d done the growing for it.