My mother sent me a small bag of soil from home

Dear Delyara, I have lived in Germany for eleven years. My mother still lives in the village where I grew up. Last month, she asked what I wanted for my birthday. I said jokingly, “Send me a piece of home.” Today, a parcel arrived with dried herbs, sweets, socks, and at the bottom, wrapped inside three plastic bags, a handful of soil from our garden. There was a note: You asked for a piece. Don’t tell customs. I laughed so hard I called her immediately. Then I opened the bag and smelled it. Earth, dry leaves, something I probably invented because memory wanted to participate. I am thirty-one. I left because I needed safety and opportunity, and I have built a life I am proud of. I do not romanticize home. I remember why I left. Still, I poured the soil into a pot with a small rosemary plant on my balcony. German soil underneath, my mother’s soil on top. She asked what I would grow. I said I do not know. She replied, “Something that survives both.” I think she meant the plant. I have been thinking about the sentence all evening.