It was the eighth time she had passed by my red, earthen home, her bucket filled with that discolored water which innocently flowed alongside the nearby fish pond. As always, a beautiful smile appeared on her face and a light, angular dance in her step. She was one of seven children each having to make several trips to the creek, based on the size of one's bucket—for water was needed to quench one’s thirst, for a pot of rice, a clean dish and the dream of a refreshing bucket bath. The drips of water—falling pleasantly off the bucket’s rim onto her warm skin as she walked the heavier journey back—provided a slight relief from the heat of this equatorial red sun.
But when it poured rain from the tropical sky, barrels caught gallons off zinc roofs—fresh and cold it came—like a precious gift from the spirits above.
Yet in the footsteps of passing showers and a thousand buckets adorning heads and worn out paths, hope continued in each journey and dancing feet found joy and smiles brightened days. While somewhere in the same country, or hundreds or thousands of miles a way—clean water poured effortlessly out of sparkling metal faucets—left running till it got cold or hot as it streamed with ease into a vessel, or not.
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