I can still picture the watering can. I think it belonged to my mother. But its color was a little lighter than forest green with a big opening on the top and skinny, narrow spout. To fill it and water plants was its use. And it did that. Not sure why we as a consumer society needed to designate a specific hunk of Chinese-made plastic to fulfill this gardening need for us, when any container would do, no? Maybe the length of spout allowed a more controlled range or reach and water flow? Wonder when the first watering can of that type came into existence. I’m not sure what happened to this watering can. But I am okay with it being gone from my life. It filled no void in my heart. It was just a familiar object that I remember from my youth. I can hear it being filled up at the sink, or with a house. That gradual glissando as the water would fill, the pitch getting higher and higher until it sounded like it couldn’t reach anymore. The water would turn off. To lift it would be this heavy weight; Every arm muscle working its hardest. Bicep, tricep, deltoid. There would be a handle either on the side (like a teapot) or overarching the can. I’m not sure which one we had. Maybe both for all I know.
Being a child and playing on the beach. Toy watering can. Novelty. Gulls cry, waves ebb and flow. Sand and the smell of salt. Shovels, rakes, and buckets. Time to build a sand castle. Engineering work. For nothing. Boredom? Labor of love? Fun? Hot sun beats down on the umbrella covering my body and as I feel water droplets evaporate off my skin, I feel my sunscreen going with it, kissing itself up to heaven. Sand on my legs I will not be able to wash off until I get home. Boombox radio. Giggle. Hot dogs from the Boardwalk. A savory indulgence. Sweet ketchup, poignant mustard. Splashing. The watering can waters the wet sand. The car ride home will be enough to put me to sleep. Wednesday snooze.