When we used the well behind our century-old house, there were two metal pails— an indoor pail that we used to carry water back and forth between well and house and an outdoor pail that was flipped over so we Indian boys and girls could stand on it and gain enough leverage to work the pump that pulled water up from the earth. Then we'd re-flip that outdoor pail so its mouth faced the sky and collected rain. Both pails gave the water a steel taste but the inside pail also tasted of dirt and stone while the outside pail also collected leaves, twigs, and insects that we'd need to pluck from the surface before we sisters and brothers passed the pail from one to another as we drank and drank and drank and drank our fill. These days, I live six hours from my siblings. I don't see them as much as I should. So, tonight, I performed an impromptu ceremony. I poured four glasses of water and set them on the kitchen table. Then I drank one and left the other three as tribute to my family. Sometimes, water is heavy with childhood memories.
My wife’s grandmother left a glass of water by the bed at night for the family ghosts who visited. Good poem.
six hours by plane separate my sister and brothers. . i swear we love each other, but as you say... raised in massachusetts, i would ride my bike deep into solitude, stopping to sip from maple sap buckets that tasted like our family on good behavior. following your lead, I'm going to have a small spoonful of maple syrup, one for each of my siblings, savoring shared memories and hopes for the future.