“Here we come!” cried the drops of water as the cloud released them over the countryside. It was exhilarating, the speed at which they hurtled toward the ground—they could not help but squeal with excitement and anticipation. And they were so full of hope, so plump with dreams, they imagined it was they who powered their descent, not the pull of gravity or the direction of the wind.

“I’m going all the way to the sea,” a drop declared with great bravado. “Me too,” cried another. “And us,” several more chimed in. The sea was their first thought because the sea is where they had come from and if they could remember anything, it was the shock of separating from the vast, singular body that had once been their home.

Then the raindrops came crashing to earth.

Some clattered through the canopy of a tree, trickled over its leaves, and landed in the soil at its feet. Others found the hindquarters of a cow and—slowly—drained into the sloppy mud beneath its hooves. Still more splashed down in a pothole at the entrance to a car park where an oily puddle had formed.

But one lucky drop fell directly into a fast-flowing stream.

“Whoosh! Look at me,” the drop chuckled with delight as the stream gushed and gurgled and carried it to the river. On it went, skating over the waterweed, sliding from one side of the channel to the other, convinced it would reach its chosen destination before its peers.

“I told you I was going to make it! I told you!”

But then another drop appeared, barrelling out of a drainage pipe, plunging into the water ahead.

“Hey, that’s not fair,” the first drop protested. “You must have taken a short cut.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied the other. “Feels like I’ve been everywhere and back again. I remember smashing down on a rooftop, bouncing off the slates and ending up in a gutter. Then I was forced through the drain. But after that, who knows what, or where? It was dark and deafening, I can tell you. Terrifying. I was just lucky to make it out.”

The first drop listened and thought the story did indeed sound terrifying. It made the ups and downs of its own journey seem easy and trivial.

“How about you?” the other drop continued. “How did you get here?”

“Oh, erm, I had my challenges, you know,” the first drop answered vaguely. “But I kept my head down, made some good decisions, did the work. Yes. And now I really must get back to it. Nice to meet to you. And good luck.”

But there was nothing to get back to, nothing that could be done to get away or get ahead. The drops were being carried by the same flow, escorted by the same currents. And so they travelled on, eyeing each other and smiling awkwardly. The river got wider and deeper and smoother, their journey effortless and untroubled, until it brought them to a weir, which spanned the river from bank to bank. The broad crest of the weir took them by surprise.

On the other side, the water fizzed into a white froth and when it resolved downstream only one of the drops was left intact. For a time, the surviving drop worried about its rival. “Are you there?” it called. “Did you make it through? Where are you?” It did not think to gloat in triumph. It was tired and bewildered and a little lonely. It longed for some company and had quite forgotten the purpose of its long journey.

As the end approached, the water turned brackish, seagulls could be heard calling in volleys overhead, and in due course, with barely a tremor of excitement, the drop passed into the vast, singular body of the sea that had once been its home.

© Richard Parkin 2021