The Watering Can

Agnes shuffled painfully from her bedroom to the kitchen. For years her joints had ached when it was damp, or when the weather changed, but these days, especially first thing in the morning, her knees and ankles felt like they were on the verge of seizing up regardless of the weather. She filled the kettle with care, trying to tame the trembling of her hands.

When the water had boiled, Agnes shook a spoonful of loose tea into the tea strainer and used both hands to fill her cup. The fragrance of Earl Grey already made the morning better. Not wishing to tarnish her morning tranquility, she left the radio off. Instead, she carefully sat down at the kitchen table and gazed outside.

The floral curtains on the back window were drawn, revealing a desiccated garden. It was toasted brown and brittle, save for small, hesitant bursts of green. Those were the ones Agnes had devotedly watered: her favourites or the ones most likely to make it through this dry spell. Most of the garden had given up for the year. Maybe forever.

The lawn, filling in spaces between decimated flower beds and despairing shrubs, was burned and jagged. Some of the less hardy trees had already started to turn yellow and shed their leaves. Several weeks without rain had devastated fields and gardens all over the Pontiac region. In the feed store and online, farmers were talking about losing entire crops and starting the insurance paperwork.

Agnes sipped her tea, savouring the tang. She lived simply, but Earl Grey with real bergamot oil was one of the indulgences she refused to give up.

She emptied the dregs from her cup, washed and dried it, and placed it on the counter. As always, this afternoon would be chamomile. Opening the back door, her hips complained as she stepped into the garden. A large plastic watering can waited expectantly by the hose. Agnes used both hands to turn on the faucet and started to fill the can. As the water crept up she took a closer look at the intensive-care flowerbed. Today again, some of the survivors were not going to make it.

She puffed her cheeks out and straightened, hefting the watering can onto her wagon with a slight grunt. She pulled it carefully behind her along the gravel path, trying to evade the ruts and bumps. Past flower boxes with their dusty, shrivelled petals, past raised beds bereft of life, past the little stream bed that only had a memory of water.

Down at the far end of the garden some trees, stalwart pines that were themselves afflicted by dead limbs and rusty needles, guarded a small trail. It wound further into the copse of trees that marked the end of her property and the start of unkempt, ill-mannered bush. A hundred years ago, before the loggers came through, it would have had a rich ecosystem, but clear-cutting and neglect had left mainly poplar, birch, and evergreens mired in mosquito-rich bogs. Agnes concentrated on her steps, ignoring the complaints from her shoulder.

The ground was hardened and uneven here so Agnes left the wagon, carrying the watering can. She had to stop regularly and put the can down to take a breath and flex stiff fingers. The first trip was always the hardest, but today’s seemed worse than usual. The further she got, the more often she needed to rest. “One of these days,” she thought, “I won’t be able to make it at all.”

Finally Agnes arrived at a small clearing close to the property line. An outcrop of rock occupied much of it, with a depression in the middle forming a natural basin a couple of yards across and several inches deep. The depression was bone dry, but stains on the rock indicated that in normal times it would have held a good amount of water.

After regaining her breath, she hoisted the watering can onto the lip of the depression and let it fall on its side, water splashing out and running down to the middle. Once the can was mostly empty, she tipped it upside-down and carefully added the remainder.

Agnes straightened up with a smile and nodded to no one in particular, as a breeze caressed her cheek, then she picked up the watering can in one hand. It was light now, and it swung by her side as she retraced her steps along the trail, placed the can in her wagon, and returned to the house.

Another watering can of water. This time Agnes’s hands didn’t tremble quite so much as she lifted it onto the wagon. Her paces were firmer down the garden path. She didn’t have to stop so often along the trail to the clearing. And her hands were just that little bit surer as she lifted the watering can onto the rock. Only a small puddle was left of the first load of water, just twenty minutes before, she noted as she sloshed the second can of water into the depression.

There was a rustle among the shrubs on the edge of the clearing. Agnes concentrated on emptying the last of the water from the can and stood up, stretching her back and sighing gently as she felt knots begin to unclench. Again a momentary breeze wrapped and blessed her. She nodded and tipped her hat as she left the clearing.

The walk back to her garden was easier. Less need to concentrate on keeping her balance and picking her feet up. The wagon trundled obediently behind. Now the haze cloaking hills on the horizon was air thick with dust and smoke from distant forest fires, and not the betrayal of rheumy eyes and cloudy lenses.

Agnes waited impatiently for the watering can to fill. One more trip to the rock, a moment of grace and healing, and she could get on with her day.