The little man held the open canteen under the lips of the pipe that rested on the side of the horse trough. Well, actually, the trough was the belly of an old bathtub into which pure, fresh spring water flowed continually.
To him, it wasn’t just a drink of sparkling, clear, cold water from the spring of his youth, it was a lifeline to his past, to his childhood. Just a sip of water not only cooled his parched throat, but it warmed his soul all the way to his toes. He drowned himself in memories – those of his folks, of fun and mischievous times with his sisters, recollections of his grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins, and neighbors. Thoughts of his brother crashed around him like the unstoppable rush of the tide’s waves releasing its salty spray. As I looked, I even thought I saw a few salty drops leak from his eyes as he was transported back to that day, when at almost six years old, he stood at his brother’s grave. As if to capture time, the little man tightened the lid when the container was full of a wellspring of memories of the many treasures and tragedies of life.
For many years, the number I do not know, he continued the ritual. Once he returned from each trip, the canteen took its place in the door of the refrigerator. Occasionally, he loosened the lid and took a sip, releasing time from the bottle of pure goodness along with a barrage of memories that echoed within his very being. With every trip back to his home place in the mountains, the canteen went along to be replenished and to fill the man of the mountains with all the memories that ran fresh and clear once again.
When the little man left us, memories in tow, he didn’t take the canteen. No, it sat alone in the door of the refrigerator as if lost in time. It is now in the possession of another who treasures the canteen for what it contains and for the memories of the one who religiously bottled it with love.
The green canteen, wrapped in its olive green canvas cover, still holds water from the little man’s last trip to the mountains and place of his birth. My daughter and I dared take a sip of remembrance after the canteen came into my possession. And, do you know what, the magic was still there. As I unscrewed the lid, an explosion of thoughts and reminiscences spewed out.
Soon, the canteen will be replenished and the memories of life – and death – will continue. After all, the little man no longer needs the canteen that holds time to stir his memories for the water of life flows freely.
