Taste of Water

by Nina Raheja

I like to taste water when I am alone. My father is the same way, 
always pouring himself a glass and disappearing to a place where I 
can’t find him. Sometimes I’ll come home from school to find on the 
kitchen counter a cardboard box ripped open, a mess of Styrofoam, and 
a certificate from the Water Analysis Center tossed aside. In the 
fridge will be a half empty bottle of water, smudged with his 
fingerprints.Out of spite, I’ll take what is left up to my room, and 
angrily gulp it down directly from the bottle.
Later, I’ll drink slower, letting the water linger inside the 
framework of my mouth, before growing warm around my tongue and 
swallowing. I will try to match a location to the taste, is the water 
as sweet as sugar plantations in Brazil? Is it as bland as the inside 
of an aged liver? Bitter enough to come from the inside of a cactus? 
With every taste of water, between the sip and the swallow, I will 
close my eyes and think of my father, sitting alone in his room 
deciphering the same tastes. I will wonder if he is thinking of me.