lesson of life: the sound of the bucket
The sound of the bucket
There was no bell in the hamlet.
No clock, no siren.
But every day, at exactly four o'clock,
the sound of the bucket could be heard.
It was Louise, a woman who was rarely seen.
She lived alone, near the old well, a little away from the other houses.
At four o'clock, she would come out.
She would pull a bucket of water, gently.
You could hear the rope creaking, the water splashing, the metal hitting the edge.
Then she would go back inside.
That was all.
But that sound... we grew attached to it.
It punctuated the days.
Like a gentle marker.
Like a discreet heartbeat.
One day, the sound did not come.
Nor the next day.
Nor the day after.
The well remained silent.
Someone eventually went to check.
Louise was dead.
Calmly, in her sleep.
Everything was clean, tidy.
The bucket was empty, turned upside down.
Then an old man from the hamlet came, the next day,
at four o'clock.
He pulled a bucket,
not needing it.
He filled it.
Then he set it down.
And the sound returned.
Since then, every day, at four o'clock, someone comes.
Not always the same person.
Sometimes a woman. Sometimes a child.
Sometimes a stranger passing by.
We do not talk to each other.
But we keep the rhythm.
The creaking.
The splashing.
The sound of the bucket.
It is not a tradition.
It is not a ceremony.
It is just what Louise did.
And what we continue.
Because something, in this sound,
says:
“I am still here.”
Erick Kandaya
