You lift a lawn sprinkler off the metal table, brushing dust and grime from the curved tube. When spraying out water, the sprinkler creates what always looks to you like the watery outline of a fan sea shell. The shell grows and grows as it reaches its peak, then becomes tinier and tinier until its lines of water barely skim off the top of the blades of grass. This sprinkler is old, the yellow plastic sides faded and cracked. So much rust covers the metallic curved spine that you wonder if, should you plug it in, water could still break through. Looking out at the yard from the patio, you try to remember running through its plumes. If you have memories of leaping across this sprinkler in the summer, they, too, have become so rusted they do not shine through. * * * Your father points out the spot: right there, he tells you, by that tree root. It covers most of the creek bed’s width, leaving only a small inlet for water to pass through. Leaves, dead grass, and clumps of clay have packed against this spot so no water trickles past. You stab the shovel against the clog, forcing all your weight against it, screaming for it to loosen, damn it. Keeping your eyes on the other side of the root, you can see the skeletal bottom of the creek, the clay-dry bumps and valleys that run through like the veins and tendons of your hand. You want the water to burst through, even just trickle through like the last bit of urine leaving your body. The dust and sun leave you thirsty, but you refuse to rest until the creek is no longer parched. * * * You can’t see your feet, but you can feel your jeans getting wetter, sending a soggy cold slowly up your legs. It radiates from your bones, through your sinewy muscles, pushing the hairs on your legs outward. The electric leaf blower is broken, so, as your father pulls piles of leaves into black garbage bags in awkward bear hugs, you swish-swish forward, pushing leaves toward him. The cold air whips at your face, your hair damp and skin clammy with sweat. For a moment you find yourself missing the blower and its scream as it does its work. The cold inches further up your legs, the dead leaves transferring dew and absorbed water onto your jeans. You would shake your fist at them, glare
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