Drip

T

he water droplet hung from the end of the faucet dangling precariously like a potbellied acrobat trying a new trick, but not certain if it was a good idea after all. It quivered hanging on for dear life, shimmering brightly, reflecting the chrome spigot on its glassy surface. Water was everywhere, but no one really watched it, no one stared. No one cared about water—but it was deadly. Water destroyed mountains, slashed coasts, devoured ships, and consumed villages. It even made the Grand Canyon, and that too started with nothing more than this same tiny little potbellied acrobat clinging with all its might, trying not to fall.

          The droplet was doing surprisingly well; it had a good strong hold despite its obvious weight. All things small seemed oddly strong. This little bit of water could be the star of a National Geographic special, it was every bit as impressive in its power and tenacity as a cutter ant. Who cared if they could carry a leaf twice their body weight, this little bit of H20 was dangling the equivalent of a thousand feet above the ground and it did not even have hands, arms or legs!

          If it were alive, might it be frightened of the fall? Would it look down at the broad sweep of the white porcelain sink below and think Geronimo! Or pray to its liquid god for evaporation? Was there solace in numbers, did it think of those who went before? Did it see the drain as salvation, as an adventure? Had it heard rumors of an afterlife where those that fell went to the sea—a place where all of them came together and merged as one being of perfect union. Did it believe in reincarnation? Would it make its fall easier if it knew there was life after splat? Could it help to know that it would disappear, cease to be as it was, but that a part of it, the best part, the purest part, would rise up into the air ascending into the heavens? White fluff flying, looking back down over all the world as it was now looking at the sink, but without fear. Then one day, when it was tired of watching, when it was time, it would return, diving back to earth in a fantastic, insane, screamingly long dive slamming into the ground. Fast and furious and laughing with an army of friends, it would ride joyously downhill, casting caution aside, no thoughts of the future, not a care, ahead nor behind, as it played through days of sun and clouds. Frothing, rolling, leaping, bubbling it would run, bouncing and flowing for a lifetime seeing more than it could remember, more than it could comprehend. Downhill into lakes, into damns where it would catch its breath, then down again into culverts of metal, tubes of copper, tunnels of plastic, until at last there it is once more dangling at the end of the faucet and wondering inexplicably—how the hell did this happen again?

          As I watch—it falls.

          Plip!

          It adds to the wet stain around the silver ring of the drain, then slowly, silently, it dribbles away.

          I look up.

          Another drop is forming.

          Really have to fix this sink.  

(If you're wondering why I posted this, see the end of the previous post on Description.)