The Minari Creek

I wander down to the minari creek when the sun hangs low. It’s doing it less and less these days, so I spend as long there as I can. If you stay there just long enough sometimes the minari fairies show themselves. Dancing and playing amongst the celery stalks that hang off the edge of the creek. If you’re still enough and quiet enough you can see the minari bowing as the wind brushes past. I do the same from time to time.

I wonder if when we’ve passed through this world will the next family still come to play at the minari creek.

Will they bring their kids to watch the Minari grow?

Will they fill their buckets just enough to watch our land replenish?

…

As a young boy, the fairies and birds always had their eyes on me. They’d love it when I’d do my little magic spells when no one else was looking. I’d run through their butterfly paths right to my favourite spot. Using a leaf from the Minari Creek, it was more like a branch, I would brush away a perfect spot and then plop my little shorts down. I’d dig into my pocket and pull out the magpie feather, or whatever other bird had dropped a gift at my feet on that day. They were usually all crumpled from being squished in my pockets all day so I’d spend a moment coming it through using a thistle nearby. Only for the Minari’s entertainment of course. I would raise both my hands above my head holding the feather trying not to laugh as the wind started tickling my sides. When the air felt right I’d drop the feather to my mouth and start blowing on it like the wind and watch it wish to fly from my grip. That was David’s grip.

“A strong boy that one..” the church friends would say

Then I’d whistle a new tune into the magpie’s lost property and watch it dance. I always loved that bit. The Minari would dance along, even the fairies sometimes. I’d wait for the birds to join in all around and make my song louder.

The angels would only ever let me get through two or three songs, my little air initiation, before the ringing started. Slotting the feather perfectly into the cracks of the willow I’d bow then run off smiling down the creek path brushing my hands along the Minari.

Oh I can still hear their singing now.

It’s been a while since anyone’s called me David.

No one, except you…

…my little Minari.