“The dirt here is still good, Mr.

Prescott,” Elias whispered.

“It is,” I said.

Elias used the long wooden handles of his rusty shears to slowly push himself up from the wet ground.

He reached down and picked up the empty green plastic pot from the damp grass.

Elias walked slowly toward the heavy wooden side gate without saying another word.

I stayed on my knees in the front yard.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a clean blue cotton shop rag.

I wiped the dark wet soil carefully from my hands.

The roots were deep, and the house was finally mine.