'In Orbit, Above a Sparking Blue Planet' by Joyce Bingham

Air

Is precious. Yet we breathe it in, waste it in conversation, make every word count, every task worth the effort. Watching the Earth through the window doesn’t count, even if I fog up the thick glass—well, that’s what I tell myself. How did I arrive here? I don’t mean the booster rockets and the years of study. It’s the aspiration, the assumption of my eighteen-year-old self that this was my dream and it would happen.

Earth

Is mesmerising. A sparking blue in the darkness of space. I have to tear myself away to measure the bean roots, count the weightless leaves. A school project in space is not rocket science, but think of the kale we can eat in future space journeys. Will anyone thank me?

Fire

Is dangerous. We have lots of flammables, including us. My fellow astronauts are a weird bunch. That makes me one too, so I am in good company. Tempers flare over tiny misdemeanours. Living so close together can make for interesting dynamics. But in the end, we are afraid of the same things, so we bond over a freeze-dried meal, and waste air remembering past BBQs.

Water

Is recycled. Through all our kidneys and the water processor. We are a team and since we share water; we are a part of each other. We talk of swimming, of surfing, of having so much water we can splash it around. I am my water and we are our water. Together we are an amalgamation of astronauts running a small tin can in the orbit of a stunning blue sapphire in a dark sky.