I watch the old film and I'm transported 
back to an old house in upstate New York.
"Water, I recommend it!" says the man pouring
from the same pitcher my grandmother owned.

She never mentioned years of drought, nor
con men with their fanciful scenes of clouds
like buffalo stampeding through the sky. Dreams
and dreamers too fantastic for her small life.

But she knew rain and swollen streams, want
and fires too. Enough to break a person who
hadn't learned early to take the blows, the 
unwanted stepdaughter left alone with
only a treasure or two, a pitcher that
sparkled in the light as water poured
into the small ruby glass with her name
etched on the side. It had to be enough.



Written in response to Day Two of prompts from Miz Quickly for November, 2022.