Water conservation signs are planted on the yellowing, withered grass, bending just slightly to the slow, occasional breezes of the otherwise stagnant air.
The newspapers have been talking about “the worst drought in California’s history,” but I wonder if this is just one of those attention-grabbing catchphrases journalists sometimes use to attract readers. It’s been effective though; people have been exercising more caution as to not receive fines for water waste.
It couldn’t have always been like this; this fear of not having enough.
I am seven years old again – the dead grass crunches under my virtually un-calloused feet as I traipse through the front yard. I throw my arms behind me, soaring headfirst into the vertically-shooting streams of water from the sprinkler.
I used to live in a smaller house, with much bigger front and backyards than where I live now. The size of the yards enabled my sister and I to have our own water park on days like these.
The water’s cold – biting cold – but couldn’t be more welcome under the scorching summer sun. As cars pass by on the street, I’d like to think that the cars envy me; they drive over burning asphalt while I let the moisture seep into my skin.
At 21, I’m one of them now and no longer a child. I speed past the suburban housing complexes, but see no sprinklers nor carefree children to run through them.