Canned Water


By Karla Carcamo

Today (but not just today) I sprayed my face with can water. Water, as my boss would tell it, “So pure it has never touched hatred. Never feared drama. Cures.” I sprayed the shit out of my face. Tonight, close family members celebrated the birth of a relative. I sit here thinking about my canned water.

The moment the cool water hit my face, I closed my eyes and an image that plays in all of our minds plagued it. The water that hits with pleasure is tinged with guilt. Tomorrow or next week people may shift their focus to transsexuals again. But for now most of us can only think about Syria. I give my face another good dose of my thermal, healing water. This water was given to me like most holy waters are. As it refreshes the skin it turns itself into a diabolical luxury.

In Syria, the water must turn into vapour. The pounding heat from the sun and bullets could turn any dew drop into gas. But here I stand with this can in my hand. Just thinking about things I’d rather not admit about our water. Our water.

There’s a dark aspect to our water that I’d rather keep hidden. It’s about its constant limitation. The limitation that brings opportunity with cost: its supply. Just is enough to turn golf courses green while making reserves deserts. Could enough of it travel to Syria?

I set my can of water down. And I think about its purity. Pure enough to tame the redness in my skin. This water sits in my bathroom haven as the waters’ in Lake Erie become cured of its Algae and those of Manitoba’s Thousands of Island Lakes resident’s become dark as their unpaved and broken roads.

This little can inspires.


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