FOR THE ETERNAL PLASTIC WATER BOTTLE. Awake. For some ungodly reason. You don’t know what time it is, you’re barely registering where you are. Who you are. In the dark, your hand reaches out. Your body knows what you need before your mind does. On your nightstand, it sits there, until it’s finally grasped and it fulfills its sacred duty. I speak, of course, of the humble plastic water bottle. No, not the one you’ve had for years, covered in stickers. I mean that piece of crap somewhere in your bedroom. Don’t deny it, I know it’s there. It’s crinkled, it’s bent. It’s been there for what, three days? Where did you even get it? Was it a moment of weakness at the convenience store? Was it from a food truck or a refreshment stand? Some dreadful conference, maybe? It’s no matter, truthfully. Because wherever you got it, it was there when you needed it to be. The plastic water bottle cares not for your judgments of it. Call it a piece of crap, call it junk, call its continued presence in your bedroom a symptom of your depression, that’s fine by it. It’s done its job and its done its job well. It won’t judge you like you will judge it. It loves you, and it knows you return its feelings deep, deep down. It knows it’s going in the trash, one day, when you finally take your meds and feel productive, enough to throw it out. But right now, on your nightstand, it’s doing its job. Maybe you think you want cold, even ice water at this hour. But what you need is water that’s meeting you where you’re at. It’s been here the whole time, sleeping as long as you have. The plastic water bottle, of course, does not only meet you in your most dire hour. In its immense yet humble power, it creeps its way into your mind when you least expect it. Now, reader, think of an ice cream shop. It’s summer. Maybe it’s not, actually. Nobody actually saves the ice cream shop visits for the summer. Don’t lie to yourself. You’re at an ice cream shop. Imagine you’ve gotten a scoop of your favorite flavor. And it’s crafted masterfully. It’s rich and smooth beyond belief. Every bite nudges your poor soul closer to a kind of heaven. Until, oh no, oh god, no. It’s too perfect, too rich. It’s something, in truth, best enjoyed a bite at a time. But ice cream is a demanding lover. Ice cream will not wait for you. Ignore it and it will cry itself into a melted slurry long before you can reach your freezer, so far away, at home. It seems all hope of your enjoyment is lost… Until, you remember. The ice cream shop, much smarter than you, has thought ahead. Past the freezers of sweet ice cream lies an even sweeter prize. A fridge of bottled waters. It’s unassuming. You hardly noticed it when you had ordered your ice cream. It doesn’t need to advertise itself because it knows who you are and it knows what you need. You stumble back into the shop, embarrassed to backtrack. But please know, the cashier at this shop will not judge you. Like the water bottle, they have seen this happen time and time again. It’s okay. You’re safe here. The water loves you. And unlike the ice cream, it will wait for you. You soon find that it’s the perfect remedy to the richness of the ice cream. The milky layer that coats your tongue is washed away with ease; when you thought nothing could be more refreshing than the ice cream itself, the water once again dazzles in its simplicity. Alternating between sweet, rich, bites of ice cream and ice cold sips from a plastic water bottle that crinkles loudly in your hand is a euphoric experience. Like a sauna and ice bath, except one is an ice bath, and another is an even icier bath. Forget physical temperatures, you know which one is which. Maybe in this case, the water is the real treat. Maybe the ice cream is a reverse palate-cleanser of sorts, meant to showcase the water’s powers. But then again, ice cream is not a patient lover. She’s dear to me too, but in writing this I’m bound to make her jealous. So be it. She can text me when she makes up 70% of our planet’s surface. After this encounter, the ice cream will be long gone. But knowing how all of us work, the bottled water will remain. In your purse or backpack, maybe tucked under your arm or in a large pocket, it will make its way to your home. To continue the metaphor of lovers, you might assume your affair with the water will be a one night stand, but we already know where this story is going. You get attached. You’re not ready for it to go yet. Late at night, you will feel comfort in having it by your side. Oh, late at night.. It’s mostly backwash now, don’t you know that? Why do you still love it? Wasn’t it junk? No, no, it can’t be junk, because it still has a job to do. Take your sip. Take another. Take the last one. It gave what it needed to give, and you love it for that. For just a moment, the world was only you, half-awake, and the water that made you not entirely regret being awake at all. You might go back to sleep. Maybe the bottle would like it better that way, so its last moment with you doesn’t have to be ruined all because you have to go get ready to face a world that asks so much more from you than this bottle ever would. Sleep, and dream of a simpler time, when you were younger. The plastic water bottle was there too, do you remember it? It might be your oldest friend. Do you remember? Some stupid sports practice as a little kid, or maybe your sibling’s soccer game. You wish they had gotten Capri-Suns instead. But no, out in the field, after everything’s said done, it’s you, a pack of Goldfish, and a mini plastic water bottle. Cute, right? It was little once, just like you. Look how far you’ve come. The water bottle’s been there for it all. You sometimes still see those tiny water bottles. They don’t fold and crinkle like the big ones do. There’s a joke to be made somewhere about the bottle being your back that keeps crackling and snapping now that you’re all grown up. Don’t stress yourself finding the words for that joke. The water doesn’t find your misery very funny. When you walk past those bundles of mini water bottles in the grocery stores, the packs of eight, the packs of twenty four, the packs of forty eight… You think of your younger self. You wish you could tell that kid to love that water just like how it cared for them. You haven’t drank a Capri-Sun since you were eleven. You hope some elementary school coach is going to buy that big pack for their team. You hope that the kids that drink that water in disappointment will grow up to one day have the same thoughts you’re having now. Don’t worry. I’ll let you in on a little secret: they will. Come close, can I let you in on another secret? Most thoughts you’ve had have been had before, and most will be had again. Yeah, even that one. Take another sip of water. Take some comfort in this. You’ve never been alone. Remember when you were a kid, and you first heard that every drop of water you’ve ever drank was once dinosaur pee? No? Was that just me? I’m only kidding. I know it wasn't just me. All water was once dinosaur pee, it was also someone’s tears, maybe not a human’s tears, but someone’s. I know it was in a glacier, too, isn’t that cool? You know plastic is made from oil, right? And oil, well, it’s not made from dinosaurs, per se, but of life much older. Ancient plants and algae. The water was part of them, too. It’s been such a long time, but those organisms and the water that once gave them life have been reunited, right there, on your nightstand. It’s temporary, the water’s not going to stay in there forever. But it was nice while it lasted. You were a part of it, too. Both sitting on your bed at night and billions of years ago, when your atoms were forged in the same star. I’d like to end by saying this: There is very little difference between one thing and another. Perhaps in truth, there is no difference at all. But to humans, who like to trick ourselves in kind, small, ways, there is just enough difference in this universe for us to love the taste of water, and just enough difference for us to imagine the water may love us back.