I remember the smells: the dry dustiness of the open country in summer, the sweet dampness of the forest after the rain. And noises: the wind rushing through long grass; the roar of a waterfall; the sound of thunder. The sounds of the night, when you can hear the smallest animal, the insects even, moving through the dry grass. All comforting, in their own way. All reminders that I was alive, and strong. I also remember the times I went to the city. The unreal smells, the loud, sudden noises, bright lights, all were alien to me. I left as soon as I could.  

I remember my family: the wise old ones, who passed their wisdom on to me and others like me; the pushy young men, sometimes just taking their chance when they could, sometimes, more desperately, challenging the older men for their place. The fights. I remember them. The wounded, the defeated. I was always sorry for the losers. The victor’s wounds always seemed to matter less, somehow.

But what I remember most is the ones who died before their time. My brother, killed for reasons I don’t understand. Not for anything he had done. That was hard. He wasn’t ill, in fact my brother was young, vigorous and strong. He was a loner, which made him vulnerable to evil, to badness. We came across his body unexpectedly. It was a shock and the grieving was long, and hard. We buried him where we found him. For all that he died before his time, however, the sadness that I felt then was nothing to the depth of sorrow that I felt when my baby died.

He was beautiful. His ears, his nose, his tiny feet, all perfect. The time we had together was brief, but every moment of it is engraved on my heart. For days after he was born I didn’t sleep at all: I watched over him, listened to his little noises as he twitched in his sleep, smelt the sweetness of his soft breath. In the sunshine he ran and played. When he first saw the river, what a joy! He jumped and splashed, soaking us all. He was perfect.

Then, before his first year, he became listless. I feel sorrow now, thinking of it. Could I have done more? But we were all powerless, we didn’t know what was wrong, even the wise old ones. We could only watch as he grew thinner, lost his life force, little by little, until, one night, near dawn, I felt a tug, soewhere deep inside. Such a darkness surrounded us both. I thought my heart would burst from my body.

For weeks after I walked with my head down, unable to meet anyone’s eye. After a suitable time had passed, the others spoke to me softly. I was comforted, began to heal. But part of me never healed, was never replaced. He would have been an adult by now. He could have been a leader, who knows?

And now, I have nothing but my memories. Because that's what we do. We remember. Life is long, and the wonders we see and feel and hear are many. I will never commune with my family, friends, others, again. But my rich, full memory will live on, with the others, especially the old ones, my friends that I have known all my life. This is how we remember, we elephants. This is how it has always been, and how it will always be, until the end of time.

I see a darkness now, at the edge of my vision. My family, my herd are all around me, in a circle, heads bowed. I can smell the earth, hear the grasses move in the breeze. A trunk reaches out for mine, twines around it. My daughter. Her breath mingles with mine, I feel her sorrow, she feels my love. I'm not afraid to die, because I know I will live forever. And with this I feel a great calmness descend. I'm sleepy. I can feel the hot sun on my skin, easing my tired body. I'll just close my eyes for a second.