Brunswick green rocks—the colours so deep and rich you wouldn’t think rocks were rocks; in the shallows, the spray lit up in the moonlight. He wailed and somewhere with the rough wind whipping about us in the dark I felt a sting and warmth flooded my face. I went home after that, leaving him stranded on the beach and swearing at nothing. The naked bulb flickers again, brightness fading. Mum always said: Do what your heart tells you to do. I’d follow that advice, any advice Mum gives. The mirror has grime on it. I get dressed for the cold night, wrapping the checkered scarf round and round my neck, right as a noose. Stalk out of the house, muttering an excuse to Dad who stands smoking on the street corner. Trek up the hill, bushes clawing about, filled with anticipation. They know what is to come. The spark of the lighter in my pocket rocks and hums with the wind and trees, angry to be confined to its cradle, eager to grow. The house is quiet. I suppose it’s late for Liam’s family, being better off, having shorter work hours. My fingers flick on the lighter, and the rocking reaches its peak; the humming escalates to roaring. My gloved hands dance through the shocking red, yellows, oranges; it’s easy to forget such colours, such a fiery element existed. Hot tendrils reach out with carnivorous desire. I throw my head back to the stars and laugh, hearing the sound resonate again and again. Laugh and laugh – perhaps I’ll get back the time I have lost. I gaze through the smoke and fire, and allow myself to think fondly one last time: Liam, isn’t the smell romantic? I imagine myself walking home happy and dandy and telling Mitch a bedtime story. Instead, I walk home slowly and distractedly. And I find myself back in the yard with a Tilley lamp and the planks. Sawing. Working away in silence. There are saplings, fresh and green and crisp as spring, growing amongst the ashes and darkened earth. Like moonlight and mist, almost silver. That’s what they are. Alive. The land gives, and receives in turn, for what comes from the forest and earth must return to it. Now I crouch down to touch what I think is charred earth, but my fingers are betrayed by wetness. It is just the autumn rain. Xylem swells. The child will arrive. ‘
Xylem
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