A hot, dry and barren desert is where I’ve been—surviving on stale drops squeezed from a long empty canteen. Longer that I can remember. Longer than I want to think about.
At the horizon I saw a glimmer of green. Hazy in the distance. A mirage, I thought. But I was drawn to it. Slowly, without realizing it at first. As I got closer, the fragrance of the oasis was overwhelming. Intoxicating.
Then I found the well. Nestled in a sheltered place it seemed to wait for me. Ready for me to discover it. So I drank. I drank long and deep… And for one glorious day I came so very close to quenching my thirst.
But the next day, the Gestapo arrived. They surrounded my well with guns drawn, trying to drive me back into the desert. Tears streamed down, their flow unstoppable. I will not go crawling back into the desert. I will not lie in a wasteland. Unless they make me. And they could. With a word they could cut off all access to my well. And I live in fear of them.
One cup, they tell me. You can have one small cup from the well. So I take it. And here I stay. Still somewhat shaded in the oasis, sitting at the feet of the Gestapo I fear, waiting for my cup. Because I reason that it’s better to survive on a few sips of the best water I’ve ever tasted… than the stale, bitter drops found in the desert.