Water is Life
Bellevue, NE
2021, Junior, Creative Writing
Dry wind howls through my dirty curls. My lips are parched, yearning for water. I have none to drink.
Water is life.
I feel my mother’s voice surrounding me, reiterating that phrase once again. I know.
I’m supposed to be walking. I’m supposed to be on a journey. But I’m thirsty and hot and tired, so I allow myself to rest on a jagged rock. I consider the stones and clay-like lumps of dirt scattered around me. My filter and canteen dig into my back.
I remember looking past the village at a forest full of lush green plants. My left hand was tucked into Mom’s as I dipped my right hand into a bubbling stream.
All that has faded away.
I stare at the dryness.
You can’t go. I know we’re running out of water, but don’t you remember? Mom didn’t want me to leave the village.
It has to come from somewhere, I argued. I can find water.
She had a good reason.
Please. Her eyes were begging as she clutched our wooden table. I can’t lose you too. Mine was better.
We haven’t had rain in months. I need to go.
In this hopelessness, I’m beginning to wonder if Mom was right.
No. I won’t let the desert defeat me. I reach under my thin, ragged tunic and unwrap my chest cover, letting the dry air reach my sweaty skin. I toss the cover onto the mud. I need to—
Mud?
I bolt upright. Mud means water. Water.
I follow the swirls of mud for ten paces. I almost don’t believe it when I see the tiniest puddle on the ground.
Bending down, I giddily pull out my filter and scoop the water through it. A few sips reach my mouth.
Water is life. This is barely any water, but it’s enough. Enough to keep me alive. I straighten, surveying the horizon. I need to find more water—enough to sustain not only myself but the village. I visualize the streams we always followed, the water holes we collected from. There has to be water somewhere.
Right?
I can’t keep searching aimlessly. I’ll follow the mud.
I scoop up a little mud with my hands, hoping to find water under the ground. The mud only reveals dry orange dirt, hard as rock. I slam my fist onto the ground, dig my fingernails into the dirt, but it doesn’t budge.
My fingers are cracked and dry, and the sight of it makes me want to give up. Everything in my life is cracked and dry.
But I need to keep going. I still have the will to live, and more than that, I want to save my village.
Water has to come from somewhere.
I will follow the mud. It will lead to water. It has to.
So, I put one foot in front of the other for what must be miles, squinting down at the little streaks of mud in the ground.
One foot in front of the other.
I had a water dream.
A brown line trails forward, far as my eyes can see.
I was in an underwater cave, surrounded by water and life.
I keep walking, pushing away fear and doubt.
I swam forward, my desire barely out of reach.
One foot in front of the other.
The cave fell away. I felt nothing but heat and dryness and pain. The sun’s rays beat against my back.
The sun’s rays beat against my back.
Nothing but heat. Dryness. Pain.
My nightmare has come true.
I still have the mud, though, trailing on and on… until it vanishes from the ground, dried up.
“No!” I cry. I claw at the ground. My only hope—gone. Dirt flies around me, but not a trace of water.
Until there is.
A puddle of warm, muddy, beautiful water appears.
I keep digging, faster and more desperate now that there’s a sliver of hope. Water. It’s like a hazy fever dream, and part of me wonders if that’s not what this is: a mirage fueled by heat and dehydration.
But I know it’s real from the life that courses through me as I drink. I trace the mud with my finger, my eyes following the path I know leads back to the village.
Water is life.
I notice a tiny plant that has sprouted from the mud, and my parched lips form a smile.
Reflection
Reflection
What if there was no water? I knew this was something that could happen and is already happening in some communities. I wanted to capture how people would deal with a water shortage, and I soon figured out that my view into this story would be through the eyes of one brave soul finding the journey water took to her community. I enjoyed writing Water is Life, but it was also hard. There was a lot of conflict and pain, and I had to imagine what it would be like to live without water. I have the privilege of simply turning on the faucet and having what I need, so I truly stepped into someone else’s shoes for this story. Water is Life helped me realize what it might be like to live without such a precious resource. I also realized that water comes to everyone in different ways. For some people, it’s through crystal clear pipes. For others, it’s through little swirls of mud. No matter how water reaches people, though, it’s essential to life, and I hope this story captures that.