The Pump
September 3, 2017
August. Midway, Utah. Pines, aspens, lilacs. They enclose my grandparents’ property. Where Omi keeps a tidy home. Not one speck of dust or stain of grease can be found. Omi is a clean-freak. But we are wild beings. Dirt smelling of serenity and iron nourishes us, supports us, covers us. Muddy feet, grimy hands, smeary faces. Still, not in Omi’s house. To the pump! Standing in saturated grass near the garden. Her silvery, cinnamon metal frame is uncompromising as she confidently devotes her life to bearing brisk well water. To roots, to us. When we were kids, the tension in her lever made us push upwards too hard. She would erupt and douse our bodies. Laughter followed as we draped ourselves across the sun-baked path that led to Omi’s porch. Cold skin, hot cement, contented hearts. I still love this water today. But I can control her lever now, if not the temptation to splash anyone and anything within reach. Her water quenches my thirst, permeates my freckled and calloused skin, infuses my veins with vigor. Soothes, stimulates, sustains. A bathing ritual to be mindful of the components that preserve my spirit. Resilient bones, passionate muscles, sensitive skin. Her pulse collides into mine. I feel myself living. Nothing else matters. Nothing else can touch me.