We lay down to love in a field of fire-red, flutter-flutter flowers without knowing their name in our language.
We skim-skimmed perfect stones from the shore of the far-from-home licking lake as it watery-lapped at our city shoes.
We tumbled to the train, our knees grazed with happy earth-mud and excitement.
I’d remember that day as the foul factory air took your hand and I coughed out your name at the graveside.
Icarus took to the air with the confidence and exuberance of youth. He soared above the earth
and watched rainbows form among the clouds as they released their water onto the arid fields
below. Such was his enjoyment of his own cleverness that he was not aware of how close he
was to the raging fire of the sun until it was far too late. His wings, so powerful but now burnt
and useless, fell from him as he hurtled towards the earth and certain destruction.
‘You know what that smell in the air is, don’t you?’ I said, feeling sure he would lecture me
about it in his usual way, but making the effort to smile at him as the water from the sudden
downpour swirled and gurgled in the gutter, but he shook his head.
‘It’s Petrichor,’ I said, ‘which is a word for the dry earth releasing chemicals after rain.’ I
was fired up by the discovery that for once I knew a fancy word he didn’t, and I gabbled on
about it all the way up the long road home. Having the upper hand in conversation for once
was a thrilling distraction from all our woes, but of course it didn’t last, any more than that
evanescent scent of rain did.
Behind the waterfall, the air was cooler. Wren filled the earthenware jug, enjoying the icy droplets sprinkling her arms. She was glad of the excuse to escape the villagers' stares and lingered until the hot sun began to descend beyond the distant hills.
Balancing the jug on her head, she straightened her spine, feeling the baby kick in protest, and headed home, fireflies dancing around her, lighting the path forward.
Earth is a labourer named Dave, he spends a lot of time digging and dealing with shit and grime in sewage pipes, he does not have clean hands and knows people don't want to sit beside him on the bus, but he'll talk to anyone and is kind at heart, though quiet.
Fire is a woman called Lesley, she's had a tough life, is quick tempered and she'll tell you what she thinks without a moment's hesitation; she blames her father for walking out on her when she was three, but really, she could choose to be better, if she wanted to.
Water is a librarian named Steve, he flows in and out of the lives of the people he works with and the groups he hosts in the library, he waters earth with kindness and quenches fire by being there.
Air is what we breathe when someone listens.
As they dragged her mother from the water, a wild-eyed wee lassie wrenched herself free from the hands that had held her. She followed the cart all the way to the prison, boots pounding the earth, chasing her racing heart. When her mother’s feet kicked the air, flailing for a lost step, the girl screamed a silent promise. And, as the fire raged through rags and hair and flesh, two spirits rose, ethereal.
Liam had been planning
and training for this ordeal since his earliest days on earth. He had expended Herculean
effort punctuated with moments of fatigue, doubt and anxiety that left him
gasping for air. The series of lonely nights awaking drenched now seemed just
water under the bridge as he finally approached his lofty summit. He had
finally walked through fire and truly braved and tamed the elements, from actinium
to zirconium, as he closed the completed organic chemistry exam book and marched it triumphantly to the proctor at
the front of the room.
The scouts had nearly drowned; washed away in a localised deluge of sparkling water
from above, but sticky and sweet smelling they had persevered and related the news.
The return with the promised supplies was even more treacherous; the air caught the crispy
END
In the darkness there is a spark.
The light bolts, and the thunder claps.
The earth shakes as the air shivers.
The water falls, and the fire rages.
No matter what, my mother does grief her own way, standing apart under the butternut tree, wearing a black wool suit and a black expression, having chosen to ignore my instructions for Tulsa’s celebration of life — to wear bright colors, fishing paraphernalia, and John Deere Tractor caps. Having lost two husbands and a sister but zero sons, she suddenly feels qualified and entitled to prescribe appropriate death rituals for my eleven-year-old son. Tulsa adored digging barehanded for worms in the earth and fishing here on the shores of the Shiktehawk Stream, and this is the best place to bid farewell, although Mum insists that it’s unduly morbid to have a service to scatter Tulsa’s remains along the very same stream that arrested his breath, filling his lungs with water, displacing the air. But if I can bear to send my sweet child’s body into a gas fueled, high temperature fire, then I can certainly bear to stand on this stream bank and gaze at sun shimmery water and flickering trout tails while hoping to glimpse through refracted tears the glittery world my Tulsa saw last.
Her soaked airless hood hung heavy, making her crouched shape nothing more than a rock to the casual observer. But it was no casual observer she had stayed frozen to the water’s edge all night to avoid. As the sun rose, the steam from her sodden cloak followed, up through the reeds as loud and obvious as the fire that awaited. She felt the vibrations of their hooves long before she saw them, through the earth of her body, through the earth of her body, through the earth of her body - her unearthed body.
