A Dry Run

I'd give all wealth that years have piled,
The slow result of Life's decay,
To be once more a little child
For one bright summer day.
-Lewis Carroll

Saturdays in Summer are not the same now, without a green field and a sibling to run about the place with.
I spent time last evening with a child who had happy possession of a water pistol and it put me in mind of the crudely made weapons of my own childhood.
The very best implement was the cylindrical dish liquid bottle that Mater used, which never seemed to run dry soon enough for us, and for which my brother and I would on occasion grit our teeth and volunteer to do the dishes. That way we might gain privileged access to the last drop and thereby conquer the vessel for our own underhand ends: filling it to the top with water and chasing the unfortunate sibling for hours.
It seemed that whole years passed by while we waited with an eye on the remains of the dish liquid. Each day that dragged we requested Mater not to let the other get their hands on it first.
Such an item was exceedingly better than a typical water gun: its range, I seem to recall, was about six feet, quite a considerable distance given the enclosed space we played in. One could hardly run and hide in such territory.
It almost goes without saying that my spraying my brother with the water was not only fair but completely justified, and that he doing the same to me was not only unfair but a punishable offence.
The days are not the same as they were. Life moves on and one becomes, without being aware of it, the washer of dishes rather than the energetic youngster with their whole heart set on one plastic bottle.
Of course, one could always invite one's brother for an overseas visit and challenge him to a dish liquid bottle duel and a fierce battle of wits.