My holiness was an accident. It happened because I had nothing else to eat. I had stopped eating eggs after the salmonella outbreak on the news in February, salad greens after the third report of E. coli, dairy after listeria killed a pregnant woman from Georgia. Anneke, my wife, said I needed therapy, but extreme caution seemed reasonable to me. Dirt full of feces, ungloved fingers, shed hair and dead skin, utensils not rinsed in hot water, air oozing into sealed containers. Eventually I survived on fruit and overbrewed black coffee. Anneke gave up cooking for herself, ate Greek yogurt and packaged salads and didn’t clean out the refrigerator, which began to smell sweet and stagnant.

I was standing in a field carpeted with light blue flowers. They were so small as to merge together into one mass, giving the illusion that there was nothing beneath them. I stood on a vast blue cloud. The impulse to touch the flowers was too strong to resist, so I crouched down and ran my palm across the tops, just skimming them. As I'd expected, soft as feathers. I closed my right hand around a bunch of the flowers and pressed my fingers into the cold, soft dirt beneath, pulling my fingers towards the centre of my palm and obtaining a handful of wet and compact earth. The ground that I had separated it from gaped back at me. In my upturned hand I studied, looking for anything moving in the dark mass; slithering, crawling, emerging from the nurture below ground. It dawned on me that despite the richness and imperative nature of dirt it was derided. Being dirty was looked down upon and being dirt poor was a term reserved for those in the direst of straits. Even though essential for human life it was marked as unsavoury by humans, for its baseness. The whole clump did seem to be moving; rich with life despite there being nothing discernible, and I brought it up to my mouth, pressing the whole lot to my lips. As much as could fit between my teeth squeezed its way in and the rest pushed in front of my teeth, packing into the region where my gum and inner lip met, the scratchier parts grazing over the surface of my teeth. At first there was no taste, only these textural sensations. My tongue pushed to the base of my mouth as the entire cavity was made full, the firmness becoming wholeness; a well packed clod. It was hard to draw in breath through my nose, but eventually I settled into a rhythm and the dirt sat where it was, my flared nostrils pushing in and out the vital air that I needed. An old man was crossing the blue field as I looked up. He wore a dark grey, or faded black tracksuit, the jacket zipped all the way up, under his chin. On his head was a soft felt cap of a similar shade which threw a band of shadow over his eyes. He shuffled in a manner that said very old but still very fit and healthy. There wasn't anyone else around and I wondered whether he'd noticed me crouched there as he was only some fifty metres away, at the most. The field was completely flat and I could see him as clear as day. As he dissected my line of vision he turned to his right, in my direction, pulling his cap up off of his forehead and baring his tanned skull which was bordered with a thick tuft of white hair. He squinted as he removed it then yanked it back down over his brow, the shadow returning to aid his vision. In his left hand I could now see that he was carrying a rolled newspaper and with his right hand he waved at me. The wave said this: “Hello there stranger crouched down. I'm an elderly man returning from the small shop on the other side of the field where I go to pick up my morning newspaper. I don't usually see anyone on my way there or back, in fact, I've never seen anyone in this field before so I'm a little uncertain as to your purpose here. I'm in no way perturbed but I am equal parts curious and wary as to your presence. I'm designed to offer a greeting but also give you an opportunity to gesture back to me in a way that might reflect the nature of your situation. I'll move side to side a few more times and then relax myself” after a couple more waves the man brought his hand back down to his side and stood still, his shadowed eyes waiting for a response. My breathing was now relaxed and I'd become accustomed to the fixture in my mouth. I tried to move my lips but they were pretty much set in their position, unable to budge. What’s more, there was flavour developing in my mouth and something like a grassy raw meat taste sat on top of my tongue. Underneath it was something else, reminiscent of bitter honey. As I turned these unexpected flavours over the old man was still looking and I wondered how long he would wait for a sign from me. It seemed cruel to want to find out, so I waved with my dirty right hand and after a few seconds he started over towards me, stepping gingerly on the small blue flowers. The sun was shining directly onto his approaching figure and the belt buckle at his waist glinted with each step, catching my eye in a dazzling way that made my eyes sting. ‘don’t ruin my sight’ said my inner voice. His shadow dragged behind him. Once he was in range he called out to me, not shouting but in a raised voice “Hello there son” he continued, shuffling “I saw you crouched down there and thought I'd come say hello, I hope you don't mind. I've never seen anyone around here is all.” I couldn't answer so I just nodded my head. Then I gave the thumbs up, remembering that it was my mouth that was full of dirt, not my hands. The old man pulled up a few feet short of me, looking down at my crouched figure, and I up at him with his slight stoop. He had a quizzical expression but also one that held some recognition. “How queer.” he muttered, and unfurled the paper in his left hand, shaking it out so that it was crisp and flat. “Look at the headline for today.” He held the paper by the top and bottom, facing the front page toward me.

The day she turned forty, my mother burst into flames. I watched it reflected in my father’s glassy eyes across the dinner table, yellow and orange tongues of fire that danced in their devouring. Flesh doesn’t burn like wood or paper, doesn’t turn immediately to ash; it sears and bubbles, melts in layers, and sloughs away in chunks. She collected in a pile of chalky, mangled bone and blood broiled into sticky black tar.