The Water Bearer

“Doesn’t matter,” he growled. “Water is water, and that’s all there is to it.”

I began to feel that maybe it was best that Jim never spoke much. He was getting on in years, and maybe he was a bit senile or becoming peculiar in his ways. I began to regret my decision to walk over and talk with him that night.

“Mosquitoes in spring. Bad smells in summer. Ugly in fall, and frozen over in winter. You got kids, don’t you?” he asked, fixing me with a hard stare.

“A little boy.”

“That’s the worst. Little boys are into everything. He’ll be over there like a shot. Should have it drained.”

I shrugged noncommittally. I mean, literally, the pond was no more than three maybe four feet deep, and that’s after a heavy rain.

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