It’s been a hot, dry summer. The kind of summer that makes you think of the summers from your childhood and lemonade stands on the sidewalk; running through the sprinklers and the smell of Coppertone on sun-soaked skin.
The kind that has turned my lawn brown and brittle. That makes beads of sweat snake down the dip in my spine just walking to the mailbox. That feels hot enough to sink into your bones, behind your eyelids, beneath your hair.
I stood on my brown and brittle lawn in the heat of the afternoon, a hose in one hand while the other wiped sweat off my chin. I stood and I sprayed, the droplets of water catching the light before showering the once-green and soft.
It was mesmerizing, watching the water arch in the air before the ground could catch it. I stood still and I sprayed, waiting for the water to puddle, wondering how much it would take.
But the water would not puddle.
The ground, parched earth, was greedy with the water, thirsting for far too long to let it stand stagnant.
I stood and I sprayed, mesmerized by the crystal droplets and the arch of the hose and the dirt sucking down that water so desperately I swore I heard it drink.
And I wondered why I have never been that thirsty for Water, before selfishly hoping to God that I should never know parched.