This Droplet

By Wesley Graybeal

It just sits there. It does not know that it will receive a cupful of water in about a minute. Right now it must be realizing it was utterly parched, for I had completely forgotten to water it until today.

But one would not know its thirst from its outside. Its bright green branches shoot up with vigor towards the cold and dead and white LED light. It must think it is outside under the sun, watching its daily circumnavigation of the sky. But it is not. The LED lights are on a 12-hour rotation, just enough for this little bonsai to get its required photosynthesis, and just enough to simulate what it might feel like if this little tree were actually outside.

And I must keep it inside; supposedly they make you happier—plants. Supposedly keeping care of them helps you keep care of yourself (although taking care of oneself issignificantly more difficult than just watering a little tree every couple of days).

Maybe I should actually put it outside—it deserves to feel the wind, hear the leaves crunching as I walk by, and meet the harsh rays of sunlight for its much needed energy. It should feel the subtle droplets of rain showering down upon it, quenching its thirst for much longer than a human waterer’s method of instantly drowning the pot and waiting for the water to seep, seep through until it escapes through the holes underneath. This water would be natural, would be real, not like that sink tap water filled with who-knows-what and gone through who-knows-how-many filters. The sky rain, the real rain, is pure; it is cool; it has been to places I could never even imagine—I might have even drunk it once; a dinosaur might have felt its cool presence on its big long neck. This water, this droplet, that droplet, all droplets, they have known every small little corner of this Earth—but here one is now, suspended in mid-air on its way to satisfying my humble, slightly sapped little plant.

It hits the plant; half of it rebounds, hitting another root, hitting a fallen little leaf, all alone. At first the plant appears to be drowning, with water over every single square inch of soil. But a snapshot later, as if in slow motion, the water creeps into the dark brown soil, filling up roots and creating peace in the once dry and deserted soil.

It is a fascinating spectacle, this slow soak into soil. Can the little tree feel it? Can it tell it’s been hit with the force of thousands of little water droplets? What next? Does it plan out where each water droplet goes; does it even realize how long it’s spent without water?

It must not think, I presume. But, even without knowing it, it accepts water as an old friend, desperate to relinquish itself in its powers, its cooling, its regenerative, and its chemical powers.

But here is how I know I have done enough: does it seep through the bottom? The water is desperate to be free, but it cannot escape the predatory root system of the little tree. Each water droplet gets sucked up, and like a dust crumb meeting a vacuum, it’s taken away. But sometimes, just maybe, a tiny squadron of water droplets frees itself by finding the exit, the holes in the side of the pot to let out excess water. It has escaped; it has been released. Oh hallelujah!

Not yet.

It’s falling, realizing that the pot was on a shelf above even more plants. It’s finally experiencing what those pesky raindrops feel, gravity. But its journey is not over yet. It may feel free, but just wait.

Wait.

It must know it has to hit the ground eventually—but what it does not know is that there is another plant, eager to be fed, resting right at its landing place: a snake plant; a predator. Its pot, in order to trap every single poor droplet that comes its way, does not drain.

It hits the snake plant’s soil. It sneaks and seeps through the soil until SNATCH, the snake gets it. Surely it must think it is over. Its journey has come to an end; it has lost its freedom and now only remains in the roots of its predator, the snake, the snake plant. It thought it was free after escaping the bonsai, but its plan was thwarted.

At once it is ripped into its separate parts. It, as a whole, has not undergone photosynthesis. It, as a whole, never will. This is the end of this droplet. Its parts, the two little hydrogens and the singular oxygen, will never see each other again. Each part will form a new droplet, but this droplet will never be the same. This droplet is over.

This droplet is gone.

Wesley Graybeal is a freshman at Columbia College planning to study Sustainable Development and Architecture. He is from the mountains of East Tennessee where he fell in love with nature, geography, and climate. He loves hiking in the mountains, photographing nature, and finding beauty in little ordinary miracles.