As it emerged as breathlessly as its driver from the watery prison, she could see that it had picked up some lupins on its speedy, unstoppable journey down the hill. They hung there, not lively and bright and pink and purple anymore, proudly facing the world, but instead dripping and wilted like Jessie’s spirit would be forevermore.
The once beautiful lupins, as the dirty, thick cable arced the car gracefully over the hill, left miniscule traces of the water that had drowned her father on the lovely soft green grass below. Jessie would always remember those water droplets settling upon the grass, reflecting the magic hour light of popping oranges and reds, a light sought after by photographers and cinematographers the world over. Those droplets, life-blood of the river over which Jessie’s father had ridden like a knight gracefully dipping his paddles and undoubtedly singing as he cruised happily atop his future prison on this magical summer day, were about as part of the river now as Jessie’s beloved dad would be in her life – nothing more than fragile, faded, eerie, ethereal reflected light.
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