Rhythms of the End: A Glass of Water

A glass of water: the greatest riches in the heart of fire

A glass of water. So simple, and yet so rare—especially when summer brings thirst, drought, and the fires that devour the country.

Portugal is burning in several places, and here in Pampilhosa da Serra I witness from a distance what the heat leaves behind: ash, smoke, sirens racing against fate.

In the midst of fire, the glass of water is more than liquid. It is life itself—a reminder of everything essential.

The table is set in the heart of the mountain, made of charred logs, shrouded in smoke that drifts through the air like incense. In the distance, firefighters surrender themselves to the flames, while Tété prepares for an unlikely dinner: seated at the table with her friend, Death.

Tété approaches with cautious steps, as if walking on invisible embers. Death carries no scythe, but a cup of water in his hands—a rare water, a symbol of all that is lacking in this summer where everything burns.

Before sitting down, Tété remembered Kaya, a German woman she had met in a nearby village. Kaya wept because she had to leave everything behind. She only had time to grab her dog and her cat. She cried for her house, for the photographs, the gardens, the little things that made up a life. Tété put her arms around Kaya and felt her sadness, her fragile bones—like holding a glass about to spill.

In that embrace, she realized it wasn’t only Kaya. It was all of us: fragile in the face of loss, clinging to what was never ours. We shape our lives in such a way that we grant almost absolute importance to what we possess—the house, the furniture, the pictures, the car, the children, the husband, even the pots and pans in the kitchen. We forget that all of this is as fragile as ash in the wind. We forget that the only true possession—the breath, the moment, the living embrace, a simple glass of water—can vanish faster than a burning wall.

Death hears the memory and smiles: “Do you see, Tété? Houses burn, objects disappear, but breathing goes on. That is what you gave Kaya: an invisible cup of life instead of loss.”

Tété looks around and sighs. The trees scream silently, animals flee, people shut their windows and pray for the wind to change, for rain to come. The dinner of existence begins in the most human of settings: when life itself is at risk, every second is savored like a sip of fresh water.

“You see, Tété?” says Death, his voice crackling like firewood. “I am the one who seasons life. Without me, your glasses of water would always be lukewarm.”

Tété helps herself to stale bread and cured cheese, as if chewing on childhood memories. She smiles wryly: “You always appear when the fire grows. But tell me: aren’t you the one who consumes everything, just like this fire?”

Death shakes his head. “I am not blind destruction. I am memory. The fire of the mountains shows you what you forget: that nothing is eternal, that even the tallest trees can fall to ash, that even summer comes to an end. But remember: even in the heart of fire, there is always a glass of water.”

A salty taste rises from Tété’s plate—not from the cheese, but from the sea she carries within. “And the sea?” she asks. “Does it die too?”

Death lifts the glass of water. “The sea evaporates, dries up, becomes cloud, becomes rain, becomes river. It dies to be reborn. The same happens to you, to me, to everything. Your task is only this: to live knowing that this glass of water could be your last, and still drink it with gratitude.”

In the distance, firefighters battle the flames. Men and women with sweat-streaked faces and steady eyes. Some have already lost their lives, surrendering their bodies to the fire to save others. It is the cycle of life and death unfolding before us: some depart so that others may go on.

Death watches them and smiles: “Don’t hate me, Tété. They do not fight me. They fight the forgetting of life.”

Tété puts down the bread, inhales the smoke. Tears mingle with the ash on her face. “So you want me to live as if every dinner were my last?”

Death rises, leaves the empty glass on the table, and replies: “No. I want you to live as if every dinner were your first.”

And so, amid ashes and silence, the conversation ended. Yet it did not remain only in the mountains. It remained within, as a simple practice, accessible to all: to never forget that fire can also be a teacher—and that even a glass of water can be the greatest of riches.

🌱 Practical Exercise – Breathing in the Midst of Fire

Close your eyes. Imagine fire around you—whether the blaze of a mountain or the crackle of your own worries.

Ask yourself gently: If I had to leave now, what would I take? The answer comes easily: almost always a face, an animal, or simply the miracle of your own breath.

Take a deep breath. Hold it, as if holding on to life. Exhale slowly, offering to the ashes all that you cannot control.

Open your eyes. Look around. Choose one simple detail: a glass, a plant, a stone, a sound. And whisper, silently or aloud: “This is the first dinner. I am alive.”

🌱 Dedication

This text is dedicated not only to those who fight the flames, but to all who, at some point, have been reminded that nothing truly belongs to us.

The firefighters who give their lives remind us that value lies not in the house that burns, nor in the possessions that are lost, but in the act of saving another human being.

And perhaps that is the great lesson of fire: to strip us down to the essential, to return us to the life that cannot be bought or hoarded—the embrace, the breath, the shared glass of water.

May we learn to live like those who already know they will lose everything, and still choose to dance.