Full
You see a glass brimming with water sitting beside a wooden box. No instruction, just these items. You follow your thirst.
You pick up the glass, and some water spills into the box. You sip from it, but too quickly. You choke. Cough and sputter. Slam the glass down on the box and spill a bit more.
Now the inside of the box is wet, and the bottom of the glass is chipped.
You pick up the glass, take a breath, and sip slowly. Then you gulp down half the remaining water. You’re left parched, so you take another sip. You notice a drip on your foot. Is it a spill from the top, you wonder, or a leak from the bottom? You place the glass inside the box.
You pick up the glass, now noticing a roll of tape and a tube of glue are also inside the box. You shrug, chugging most of the water left, and walk away with the glass. Before you finish off the water, your grip fails.
The glass falls. It bounces a little, and you see a crack in the top.
It still holds a few drops, so you sip them, cutting your lip on the jagged edge. You pick up the tape and place some over the crack so it won’t spread. You set it gently in the box.
You look in the box to see the glass, full of water once more, with its cracked, taped rim and its chipped bottom. You pick it up slowly this time and gingerly slurp from the top. You choke again, but recover quickly. You chug the whole thing and place the glass in the box.
You feel thirstier than ever. You cry for a long time, then reach for the glass. It’s full again.
You lean over the box, lift the glass only to your lips, and sip slowly and carefully. You take tiny sips. Breathe. Take more sips. You feel fulfilled, healthy, energized. You sigh, and the glass falls from your hands.
It doesn’t bounce, or chip, or crack. The whole thing shatters, and the water spills across the floor.
You walk to the box, avoiding visible shards, and you look in. There’s still tape, and there’s still glue. You feel a sliver of glass in your left foot. You decide to pluck it out, and a drop of your blood meets the water on the floor. You feel defeated as you watch the water turn pink, and you cry. And you pray.
And you sleep.
You wake to the same scene, your hopes of it being a dream as broken as the glass. Still, you crawl over to the largest piece and see the chip.
The very first break. This is the bottom.
You take the glue, you begin adding pieces, right or wrong, and you build it back into a cup-like shape. It looks so different. You squeeze your eyes shut and place it in the box. You close the lid for the first time, stifling your tears, and you sleep.
And you sleep.
When you wake up, you feel lively and hopeful. You open the box. The glass is smoothed over like a bone that broke and healed wrong, not like new. You take slow, steady sips, and the glass springs a leak in the middle, forming a tiny waterfall that drips into the box.
You feel better. You feel energized. But you feel older and sadder, too.
It’s then that you realize the glass will never again be completely full.