Children are not allowed to participate. They are not allowed to listen or watch. The grown-ups write their secrets, their shame, their regrets, on scraps of torn paper, fold and seal them with wax, and place them in their jars. At dusk, they whisper the words into the jars, screw the lids on tight, and bury them beneath their porches, gardens, mailboxes, and windowsills. The earth, they believe, absorbs their guilt. Only then are they brought rain. Only then do their crops bloom.