Drip

 

The faucet drip, drip, dripped all night long. Someone had left 

the handle the slightest bit to the right and all night you heard 

the dripping. The kind of dripping that every time you hear it 

you wish it would not continue. The kind that you hope after 

 one more drip that it will cease. But the faucet kept dripping. 

Splashing small droplets of cold water from the lake right 

outside the wooden cottage, onto the porcelain frame of the 

sink. The house was completely silent. None of the old worn 

down floorboards were creaking against each other, no 

footsteps or the opening or closing of the door, signaling Mama 

going out to light a cigarette. No scratching claws on the 

wooden floor from Daisy making her way to into Annabelle's 

bedroom. Nothing but the drip, drip, dripping of the faucet. 

Sometimes it almost formed a melody like the playing of a song, 

but soon it would just go back to the constant annoyance of the 

liquid continuously hitting the basin of the sink. I imagine 

waking up the next morning and the sink having a hole in it 

from it water blasting through. I realized it was impossible but 

imagining impossible things was a specialty of mine. Thinking 

about things that would never happen was better than thinking 

of things that were too predictable. Why be given an 

imagination if you can't use it? My grandmother always told me 

to use everything that God has blessed you with and my 

imagination was an important part of what makes me who I am. 

So I used my special intuition and kept listening to the drip drip 

dripping of the faucet.