Drops of Water

For the first time in several years, I needed to write a short piece of fiction. This came together during the past few months. - jj

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Bits and pieces of Lego toys are on the floor in front of the two young boys and their dad. Instruction booklets are missing; they rely on their imaginations to guide them in constructing flying machines with cockeyed wings and short buildings with satellite dishes. In the middle of building a rocket-sled, the younger boy says, “Daddy, I miss Goldie. I want to see Goldie.”

“That’s impossible because she’s, you know, dead and everything,” says the older boy. The younger boy looks down and then to Dad.

“You can see Goldie,” Daddy says, a smile spreads across his face. “Do you remember where you can look to see her?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay, I can remind you. Like all plants and animals, Goldie was made with lots of water. All of that water helped her chase a ball, and bark and see. After she died, the water disappeared from her body, like it disappears from the puddles, evaporating to form clouds.

“The clouds will grow big and strong as the hot sun evaporates even more water. Before long the clouds will be enormous towers with electricity flashing and thunder rumbling, and the water will fall back to earth, like it is today, flow into the river and on into the lake.”

The younger boy considers this and chimes in. “Ducks are on the lake. Goldie loved ducks, so I know she likes that,” his spins a propeller. He asks for more. “What about us? I wonder if it will be the same for us.”

“It will be the same and different. Maybe we will follow the path of clouds, rain and lakes but we may find ourselves far away in the jungles of South America. We will be dropped there by clouds, drawn into the roots of a tree where we will flower. A fruit will come out of the flower and a monkey will eat us.”

The boy likes this immensely. He stands like a monkey and hops on to the couch.

“We will swing from vine to tree, chasing the other monkeys,” Daddy says.

The boy jumps on his big brother’s back.

“We’ll think monkey thoughts and play monkey games,” Daddy continues

The older brother spins and pins the smaller to the floor. “We play until a monkey predator eats us,” he says and pretends to bite the belly of the smaller boy.

“No-o-oh!” says the little one.

Dad pauses and continues. “Well if that’s the case, monkey will pass, but we will not. Water persists.  

“What about the predator?” the older boy asks.

“Oh, right. The predator’s hunger will take him on the prowl eating what she wants until the years devour her. Again we will evaporate and rise through the leaves, catching a breeze, taking us to the wind. What choice will we have? Little drops of water that can’t make up their mind as to where they go.”

“I don’t know where I want to go,” the younger boy says.

“You’re only 4, you aren’t supposed to know anything,” says the big brother.

“It’s okay not to know, sometimes I forget where I am and where I am going to. The wind will carry us out over the ocean and we will see the immensity of water, the infinite number of water drops filling the ocean, from the brontosaurus and the bumble bee, the cat and the bird, the turtle and fish. All the people from across the planet who fought wars for land, joined together where no one has any land.

“The ocean mixing and blending everything, with tides and waves, a taffy machine powered by the pull of the moon and the push of the wind  People will stand on the shore mesmerized by the crashing surf, and the mysterious truth about their connection and separation from all.”

The younger boy interrupts. “I like the feeling of going up and down, up and down that you get from playing in the waves all day. And then I feel it when I sit on the beach. Up and down even while I’m on the sand.”

“It’s all there at the shore giving you the feeling of rising and falling. The songbirds who eat the seeds from the grass and drink from the puddles, taking what they need and letting go of what they do not. The water rises up the palm tree to the coconuts that eventually fall to the beach. Filled with water, coconuts play at the shore rolling up and down the beach in the rhythm of the waves that are inhabited by those we know, those we do not know, and the many we never knew. Those who never left a footprint, rock drawing or a trash pile signature. The anonymous making the ocean all that it is.”

“When will Mommy be home?” the younger boy asks.

The older boy answers abruptly, “When she gets here.”

“Before lunchtime,” the dad says calmly.

The younger boy and dad continue.

“Will Mommy be with us too, in the ocean?”

“What is the answer?”

“I know, but I want you to say it.”

“Hmm. Will you whisper the answer in my ear?”

“Yes.”