When I was five I dug a hole in my mother’s garden. It was two feet deep and just wide enough to stand in. I stepped in and piled on the dirt. Today I am a plant, I thought. Nothing bothered me; not the wind bustling around, swaying the fringe of my sleeves, not the worms beneath the dirt amusing my toes. Plants are simple, peaceful. Then I heard my sister scream. I ripped my feet from the soil and bolted for the house, nearly knocking down the kitchen door. I found her there with a mammoth grin on her face. It was a trick; she’d done it again.