Liquidity

When the announcement came early today, transmitted loudly via all available means of communication, and every cell phone and tablet and landline and radio and television and computer in our house advised that there would be no more water by the end of the day, the sun was rising and a comfortable breeze blew and aesthetically, through our window at least, there was no indication that Nature had finally had enough of us.  The morning, as we saw it superficially, appeared to be a simple morning.

The announcement, which we received seven times simultaneously, an orchestra of dejection, wasn't specifically alarming initially because horrific warnings were the norm.  We weren't upset because of novelty.  We were upset because this time, in actuality, we had to concede, it seemed likely that it was going to be true.  Over the past months, supposed experts and officials and doomsayers, all with reputations of limited credibility because no one was believable any more, had warned frequently of the possibility of an imminent development.  They told us that, very shortly, rivers could suddenly become streams and lakes and seas could become puddles and ponds and that, if drastic improvements did not happen immediately, if we didn't take better care, the situation could become apocalyptic, but we had heard the conspiracy theories about the end of the world before and they had all been artificially intelligent.  And besides, when the wildfires came, we had survived, and when the hurricanes and monsoon rains and droughts had pounded us with wrath, all described as final and life-ending, we had survived and we, meaning humanity in general, had continued on without altering our patterns of behaviour in the least.  But this time, the visuals actually matched the words and some of the newscasters and podcasters, when we watched their video footage, had forwarded their messages from supposed natural suffering settings. 

"I'm standing in water so shallow that it doesn't even cover my shoes," one said, "but yesterday this was a river.  It should be up to my shoulders."

"I'm walking in our lake," another stated.  "The water comes to my ankles.  But I'm two hundred feet from the shore.  I'm supposed to be swimming."  Dying fish were nearby, laying on their sides, looking desperate and disappointed.

A conspiracy theorist sitting at a dock that stretched out over mud, who had spoken for years about alien invasions and robot uprisings and imminent storms of asteroids, looked smug and said wordlessly, "I told you."

My brothers and sisters and parents and I all gathered in our living room.  "It's an ironic name now, isn't it," our father said with a slight grin.  "Living room.  Kind of a cruel joke all of a sudden, I think."  We looked at each other and either shrugged or nodded or stayed still.

"What should we do?" we asked finally.  Three of us posed the same question at the same time.  One of us continued.  "Couldn't this still be nothing but falsity?  Just another scam?"

"What if we try to fill glasses and pails with tap water?" our mother suggested.  "If this is nothing but another lie, the water will flow strongly and we will know we don't have a problem.  But if it's true, the water may not flow so well for long.  And then we'll just use what we collect as sparingly as we can for as long as possible and maybe it will last until the problem is solved."  We all agreed to follow her proposal and we scattered to the kitchen and the closets and found as many appropriate containers as we could carry, glasses and cups and a couple little pails, and then we went to the taps and turned them on and the water trickled slowly and we collected small amounts and, when the water stopped flowing and the pipes groaned, we returned to the living room with our meagre spoils and several still-empty containers.  It wasn't possible to use them all.

"It's not very much, is it," our father said after scanning.

"No," we agreed.

"This is indeed a genuine issue, isn't it."

"Yes."

"So the water we collected isn't going to last for very long, is it," I stated flatly.

"It's not going to last for very long," he agreed. 

"Maybe it will be enough until the problem gets solved?" our mother repeated idealistically.

"No," our father replied.  "I don't think it's going to be solved this time.  Nature is mad at us."  We didn't know how to respond to that so we sat down on the floor and placed our glasses and pails at our sides and waited patiently.

"Hasn't Nature been mad at us before though?" I offered with a soothing intention.

"Not like this."

"How are we going to use our water?" our oldest brother asked.

"We have to economize," our father said.  "That means no face-washing and no tooth-brushing and no hand-rinsing, that's for sure.  It's for sipping only, very small sporadic sips.  There's too many of us for large sips.  And we can only sip when we feel thirsty, and not just slightly thirsty, we have to feel extremely thirsty."

"How do we know what extremely thirsty means though?" one of our twins wondered.  "Couldn't extremely thirsty for me be different than extremely thirsty for you?"

"It could, yes."

"But if I drink some because I think I'm extremely thirsty, but you aren't feeling extremely thirsty, are you going to get angry with me?" 

"We just have to be thoughtful and unselfish, that's all.  We have to say to ourselves before every sip, 'Do I really need this at this precise moment?'  Only if the answer is a definite 'yes' can we then take a sip.  Does that make sense?"  We looked at each other and nodded uncertainly and then another announcement came to us on our seven different platforms and we listened and watched.  It was a national leader this time.  He was standing outside his residence, in the backyard, he told us.  It was a very large property.  Common people didn't have properties like that.

"Yesterday," he began, "where I'm standing now, this was the middle of my pond.  Now look."  He pointed to his shoes.  "I'm dry.  The situation is real this time, people.  Take my words seriously.  I'm sorry for the difficulties we are going to face.  May God bless us all."  His voice stopped and his face disappeared with a final impression of despondence, like he had given up and accepted his powerlessness.  We looked at each other again.

"Was that genuine?" I asked.

"I think so," our father answered.  "I can't say for sure, but probably.  I don't think he would have any reason to lie now.  He can't benefit from a lie like that."

"But don't they always lie?" our youngest sister countered.

"Our taps stopped flowing," our mother replied.  "I don't think it's a lie this time.  We don't need more proof than that."

"So this really is big trouble."

"It appears so."

"Why would he ask God to bless us then?" I asked.  "If God wanted to bless us, shouldn't He have blessed us already?" 

"Maybe He thinks He has," our father said.

"Running out of water is no blessing.  And if He is all-powerful and all-knowing, then it didn't need to happen at all."  No one answered and, for a brief moment, I felt good about presenting a dilemma that was philosophical and apparently unsolvable.  Our father had taught us that only smart people could do that.

"I have a thought," the second twin offered, "or at least a question.  Don't we have some milk and juice in the fridge?  Won't that help us?"

"As long as we drink it thoughtfully and unselfishly," our father answered, "for as long as we can, with little sips.  I think we have some fruit too.  That will also help for a time."  We stayed silent again.  Even with all our collective intelligence gathered together, we didn't know what else there was to say.  Outside, the sun shone brightly and we knew that the heat was rising and that meant, we assumed, that any water still pooling or flowing, whatever amount that still existed, would probably disappear even quicker.  That's how an angry Nature would act.

"What should we do now?" our oldest brother asked after a long period of silence.  "We can't just sit here and brood and stare, can we?"

"We can," I answered, "but it would be pointless."

"Isn't everything pointless now?"

"We can't change what we can't control," our father replied.   "But we can choose how we react."

"So what should we do?" our oldest brother repeated.

"You tell me," our father said.  We sat silently.  We looked at each other and then we looked at our meagre collection of partially-filled water glasses and they didn't inspire hope.

"I have an idea," both the twins tried.

"What's that?" three of us answered eagerly.  The twins were young and they sounded hesitantly innocent.

"What if we tell each other good things?"

"Like what?"

"Like anything.  It might make us happy."

"You begin then," our mother said.

The twins began, alternating sentences between themselves, describing the first time they had ever gone, with the whole family of course, to the zoo, and they explained in beautiful detail how excited they had been to see animals that were big and tall and colourful and how the sounds had initially frightened them but only for a short time because we were all together and nothing bad was going to happen and that realization allowed what they saw and heard to be intriguing instead of scary.  And then, when their story was complete, our oldest brother spoke and reminisced about a New Year's Eve when night had been most clear and the fireworks had been most bright and the colours most varied and the explosions deafening enough to make us tremble and laugh at the same time.

The memories continued and we told of holidays and meals and fun events and times we felt successful and times we felt considerate when we had helped the less fortunate and had seen the gratitude in their eyes.

"I guess we're all less fortunate now, aren't we," I said.

"We don't need to dwell on that," my father answered.

"No, I guess not," I agreed.  "We can just react as best as possible, right?"

"Good boy."

The memories continued with grateful recollections about firsts, a first day at school and a first day with a new friend and a first rainbow and a first vacation.

"I'll tell you my memories of a first," our father said.  "I remember the first moment each of you were born and I remember the first time your little hands squeezed my fingers and I remember your first glances into my eyes.  I felt honoured and extremely fortunate each time."

"And I remember holding each of you for the first time and how it felt supremely precious," our mother added.  "It was always a blessing."

"And now we're here," our father said, "and we're together in a tragedy and it's still a blessing."

Outside it was dark.  During the course of our recollections, the hours had passed quickly.  There hadn't been any more announcements but really there was no need as there was no truth that needed updating.  I stood up and walked to the kitchen and turned on the tap and the pipe groaned dry.  I returned to the living room.

"No change," I said quietly.

"Can I have a sip of water now?" our youngest sister asked.  "We haven't had any all day."

"Are you extremely thirsty?" our father replied.  "Or are you only somewhat thirsty?"

"I think extremely."

"How does everyone else feel?  Extremely thirsty?"  We glanced at each other before tentatively nodding.  "In that case," our father suggested, "let's all take a tiny sip together."  He picked up a glass and raised it up as a toast and we followed his lead, all of us except our mother.

"Are you not sipping?" our father asked.  We all still held our glasses high.

"I don't need to yet," she answered smiling.  "I might not be extremely thirsty until tomorrow."  We looked at our father as he lowered his glass and then we lowered our glasses too.

"You can still sip if you want to," he said.  "Don't act because of peer pressure.  Be true to yourselves."  We appreciated his statement and we knew he loved us.  We could wait longer to be extremely thirsty.