The bamboo arrived in February, hauled by cousins from the forest above Ban Nong Khon Kaen. Forty stalks, each three meters long, still green enough to flex without cracking. My uncle Somchai inspected them the way a surgeon examines instruments—turning each one slowly, pressing his thumb into the grain, shaking his head at two and setting them aside. “These will explode before they fly,” he said, and that was final.
ບັ້ງໄຟຂຶ້ນຟ້າ ຝົນຕົກລົງມາ
“The rocket rises to the sky, the rain falls down.”
— Yasothon proverb