There was once a little dew drop who made up his watery little mind that he was going to cling to the branch of the rose bush for as long as it took for him to grow as big as he could get and then drop from the bush to see where fate would take him next.
This dewdrop was feisty, clever, imaginative, and inventive … very clever for a small droplet of something as simple as common water. But he wasn’t just “Common” water; he was special water… He could think and reason and contrive. Those faculties alone set him apart from the common, ordinary, everyday dew drop … and he sensed it.
As he hung on the branch, contemplating his plans, he kept noticing that all the dew drops around him were reaching their maturity and simply fading away under the heat of the Sun.
He could hear their cries of despair as, one by one, they faded, lost their grip on the branches and either fell to the ground or simply evaporated and were gone forever, never having accomplished anything of note.
Our little dew drop was courageous in the face of what appeared to be certain defeat. He screamed out at the surrounding forest, “That is not going to happen to me. I am going to do something outstanding…. something that will make people remember me for years to come.”
So the courageous dew drop grew and grew and huffed and puffed and waited … waited patiently … waited for something or someone to come by and pick him up and put him somewhere where, in years to come, he could be discovered and could tell his story of courage and survival.
Suddenly that bush on which the little drop was hanging started shaking fiercely. It shook and shook and shook some more. It shook upward and downward and in every direction. The sharing of the bush was so violent that the poor little dew drop lost his drip and fell screaming to the ground so far far below.
“I don’t know what is happening,” the little drop exclaimed, “But I know that I am going to survive this, no matter what it is!”
Suddenly and without warning, a great cloud of darkness fell upon the little drop and he felt himself being crushed into the ground.
As he drew his final breath, the little drop could see faintly, through his dimming vision, the flailing flapping of the loincloth adorning the native who had just run through his bush … and the last thing he saw was the bottom of the foot of the native running away …the foot that had crushed him into the ground …. and put an end to his dreams of ever being important or remembered throughout the ages.
No, the job of helping that little dew drop to be remembered falls to me, the author of this story — a task that I gratefully accept … because a dew drop who tries as hard as this one tried, deserves to be remembered.
Rest in peace, little fella.