– The well has gone dry.
After decades of water shortages and city council meetings to plead for a waterline, we are mere weeks away from a victorious hook up to city water. Apparently, our well, intuiting it’s pending redundancy, has decided to bail on us for good in our final months of need.
We have resorted to transporting buckets of pond water to flush what is not yellow, filling water jugs down at the church graveyard, and renting an expensive cistern full of city water that would carry us through a week and a half if we were miserly.
Dad has taken to using his morning egg boiling water for multiple purposes including shaving and suddenly rinsing soap off dishes feels like a tragic waste. Not to mention, the deepening bond of friendships when you show up unexpectedly with a smile and a towel, skipping the tea for a shower.
– I’m drowning in the sea of poverty.
He has said for as long as I can remember.
Taking control of my father’s bank account is the most stressful responsibility I have ever had. It was up to him to live within his means and for many years, he was successful. But after so long retired, his ever-hungry desire to be generous has crippled him. He has given what he doesn’t have and made promises he can’t keep. He knows it but he can’t say it.
– You’re the girl for the job.
He tells me.
– Numbers aren’t personal.
I hear myself saying.
I feel like a right-wing Conservative telling the NDP that we have to cut social programs.
The thing is, I believe in social programs.
But the well has gone dry.