The Dirt – Benjamin Willems
December 1, 2025
Every time Hans and Katrine pretend it’s fall, Hans is the dirt. Katrine stands with her arms outstretched. Hans lies face down on the rug, silent and still.
When Katrine is the rain, Hans gasps, flails about, then goes still. When she’s the wind, he inhales, shivers, then goes still again. When she’s the sun, he exhales, smiles, then goes still once more.
Always, he can feel her unraveling him speck by speck, determined to remake his very composition. One minute, he might be damp. The next, he might be dry. And the next, he may well be parched. But the dirt does not complain, and it never questions anything. Sooner or later, it becomes what it was destined to be. Silent and still.
Being the dirt is less hard when Katrine is the trees. She buries Hans in her crispy leaves, and it tickles. He also doesn’t mind when she’s a field of grass drying out and sending gentle tingles up his spine. And when she’s a bird pulling a worm, a rabbit digging a home, or an army of ants lifting a stick, he knows he is not alone.
After all, he is the dirt. The dirt gives life to the plants and the animals. In return, they give the dirt a sorry half-life. But a half-life is better than no life at all.
Outside, the dirt thinks someone has stolen its life.
It started the Saturday after the first day of school. The twins, ready to maximize their limited playtime, got in position. A cloud of dust filled the backyard window, and it swirled with such force that Hans began to shake. But Katrine was the air, silent and still on his behalf. And in a flash, the view was clear.
The next Saturday was different. The cloud’s arrival heralded a storm. Fresh green foliage took wing on the howling wind. Raindrops turned to mud on their way to the ground. Katrine was the air again. Hans was shaking all over. But before long, a sunbeam peeked through, straight from a cookout on the Fourth of July.
The following Saturday, though… that was the real catastrophe. Birds pecked at the glass. Rabbits scratched holes in it. Ants marched by, carrying shards. Not a creature knew where the dirt was. It had become a cloud, desperate to choke the life out of any six-year-old who thought he could take its place. So Hans ran upstairs the moment Katrine held out her arms.
A week has passed since that morning. Dead animals line the road to school. Dead plants dot the yard. And Katrine has one question on her mind.
Why are you always the dirt?
Because, Hans answers, I’m always the dirt.
Don’t act like you like it. You’re messing with the forces of nature. You rob them of their dwelling, their sustenance, their life. Once the air is crisp and everything green starts turning gold, they’ll have less and less, and sooner or later, they’ll have nothing at all. And you remind them of that. They fear you. You hear that? They fear you!
Hans is jealous of the dirt.
It does not complain. It never questions anything. Its life, at best, is a sorry half-life.
But the thing is, the living need the dirt more than the dirt needs the living. Especially when it’s fall. Ah, the only time of year that’s both an ending and a beginning.
And Hans can’t hide from all that chaos and uncertainty for much longer. He’s got to face it. Even if it hurts. So he sprints out the back door.
Hans can feel the rain, wind, and sun unraveling him speck by speck. He can feel the leaves and the grass. He can feel the birds, the rabbits, the ants. But all he sees is that swirling cloud of dust. And there’s so much he wants to tell it he’s sorry for.
It comes out as a choke. Then, a coughing fit. Then he’s face down on the ground with a mouth full of mud.
Some time later, he blinks. Katrine is standing over him. She holds out a hand and helps him to his feet. And she has one question on her mind.
Isn’t it a nice day?
Hans rubs his eyes and looks around. The air is crisp. Everything green is gold at the edges. Underneath him, the dirt lies silent and still.
It sure is, he answers, his throat finally clear. Wanna play?