I should live in Tucsonor somewhere parched, withno water of its own, anyplacethat can only provide mea few critical drops a day,just enough to help my lipsform the begging vowel.(Maybe, also, I should onlybreathe in enough air to keepmy lungs apart, not enoughto greed about, so I neverget used to the idea of life.)I have come upon the soundof water so often it has becomewhite noise, an untrackedtrickle in the background of myhead. I don’t really know about water.
How can I love it like I shouldwhen it is this loud, this available?Water is objective, it is brash but notdemanding and comes in bottles inthe store, but I just walk past themon my way to the cheese aisle.I want to love every drop like a monkwith a grain of rice but when creekscross footbridges, when rivers movebravely in front of me, when oceansspeak words I don’t understand,I treat it as if I’m a customer andit’s the salmon in the window,on sale this week for $7.99 a pound.

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Illustration: Shreyaa Krritika Das