Our basin tap once ran dry for days. Father would come and say, fill a mug with water, wash your face. We did as told, we had to do as told.
Now our basin tap has water. Water flows in our home twenty-four hours a day. We no longer wait twice daily to catch what we can. Father no longer struggles to teach us the art of saving every drop. Now we can waste water right before his eyes, if we want.
Father no longer needs reminding to bring water in mugs to the basin. Father is retired now. In not having to speak, he has somehow fallen silent. We have so much comfort now, only the peace of hearing Father's monotone urgent voice has vanished somewhere, forever. Today, hand in hand with poverty, peace has fled our home.