The moment the well water came up, you knew you'd never have to worry about water again.

The moment the well water came up, you knew you'd never have to worry about water again.

The drill rig roared all day. You stood by, watching the drill rod descend inch by inch, your heart pounding. Soil was turned up, wet; further down, sand came out, even wetter. You squatted down and squeezed it; it was cool, and your heart skipped a beat.

Then, the water came out. Not a trickle, but a torrent, splashing you all over. You took a step back, then couldn't resist leaning forward again. You squatted down, cupped your hands, and took a sip; cool, sweet, it flowed down your throat and into your heart. At that moment, you suddenly felt the stone that had weighed on your heart for decades shatter.

From as far back as you can remember, water had been a thorn in your side. As a child, you'd go with your father to fetch water, walking miles until your shoulders bled; after getting married, you'd wait in line for ages for the water truck, and have to beg for mercy. The dry season was the hardest; seeing the seedlings wither made my heart ache too. Every time I washed my face, I had to use water sparingly; every time I did laundry, I had to carefully calculate the amount of water I used. I worried about water for decades.

Now, I don't worry anymore. Water is right at my feet; just turn on the tap and it flows freely. The vegetable garden is thoroughly watered, and the seedlings stand tall; I've added a couple more pigs to the pen, and they have plenty of water; the children can bathe for as long as they want, no longer worried about the water tank running dry. Standing by the well, looking at the water, I suddenly don't know what to do—the inexhaustible water, the boundless energy, leaves me stunned for a moment.

The moment the well water came up, I knew I would never have to worry about water again. Not that I don't worry anymore, but that I don't need to worry anymore. The water has washed away all the worries of my life.