The faucet drips methodically, like a metronome tuned to life, releasing each drop into the sink like a tear from an old eye. The faucet was not always tuned to life. For most of its existence it was in time with nothing. But as the assembly rusted it released more and more water and transformed itself into a timepiece for Carolina Washington.
Each morning Carolina approaches the kitchen faucet, dressed in her white robe, wrinkled skin hanging from each bend of the cloth, shakes her head in disapproval, and attempts to close it in order to capture a few more minutes of sleep. Often, she simply pushes against it, hand over hand, trying to recruit as much force as possible from her 74 year old frame. She tried this today. But the water kept dripping.
Carolina sighed and looked out the kitchen window. The snow had melted. It was spring. Farm equipment was rusting on her land. She went to the toolshed and returned with a hammer.
She went at the faucet. Slowly at first, each swing with more resistance than force. Then she let go. The handle turned 360 degrees. The spigot was going full force.
Carolina’s face felt a tear. This was no remorse for the faucet. That was a $50 dollar plumber bill- it would be nice to have company. No, it was a longing tear. Longing for the single drops that had kept her company for so many years. How would she fall asleep without them?