In one of my earliest memories,

I am eight years old,

I have a fistful of afternoon,

and I am asking the summer

if it will always be this glorious.

I remember taking a deep breath.

Trying to get as much July into my lungs

as humanly possible and thinking maybe

I'd be able to convince it that 31 days just isn't enough.

In my neighborhood,

owning a Slip N' Slide made you a royal family.

In my neighborhood,

we'd fill up our Super Soakers,

shoot each other for hours

And if you didn't have one

were just a target.

In my neighborhood,

we'd run through sprinklers

like someone who wasn't the boss of us said we couldn't.

Back then the water seemed endless.

Like it didn't have limits

and corners and edges,

like no matter where we were,

if we called out for water,

it would always come running.

When I was a kid,

dragons and droughts

were two things I read about in books,

but never thought I'd actually have to deal with.

I was born and raised in California.

And here, our models and rivers

looks like they're on the same diet.

Throughout the years,

I've watched both get smaller and now

I can see their runs when they exhale.

In California,

our freeways are decorated with signs

that ask us to he careful about how we use the water.

They hung like an eviction notice

from the environment. I wonder

how long it will take the planet

to tell us we can't live here

and the locks are changed.

I wonder how long it'll be before

my show becomes a relic,

before my sink tries to change occupations,

before my knobs on my faucet become

roulette wheels, before my hands rain dance

around the spout, hoping a drop will spill from

its neck. I wonder if the next generation

will know water the way I did.

The way it runs through the fingers,

the way it wrinkled the hands,

cools the skin, the way it freezes,

flakes and kisses the ground

on the cheek.

I wonder if my grandkids will

ever throw a penny in a fountain

and hear it splash.