“It’s beautiful here, Aunty. Is that why you visit so often.” We were slowly returning to the main house. Grace pushing her bicycle; I was meandering in my memories behind.

“Stay Emma. Stay there.” I saw it in his eyes. I quickly stooped back behind the workbenches remaining hidden. I was the one who had alerted Papa of the riders.

He instantly went to the bridge.

Papa was crossing the stream. The raiders – all around. Gun fire. Peering out the dusty pane, I saw Papa falling over the hand railing. The sound of the hoof beats then left as quickly as they had come.

“Mama said that you used to play in the old blacksmithery with Grandpa before the war.” Grace spoke interrupting my thoughts.

“Yes, Grace, there are many memories there on that old bench.” not saying more. Of that day, it was not spoken.

Our shoes echoed on the foot bridge as we leisurely made our way for evening meal. Halfway across, I stop. I always stop here. I gaze at the shifting waters below.

“Look, Aunty. In the ripples.” A small twig was bouncing, twirling- fighting the currents as it passed under the foot-walk.  “It’s like it’s telling a story.” Grace gleefully giggled as she danced beside of her bicycle reveling in the innocence of today.

“Yes,” I thought pensively watching the reflections of the last rays of sun dance upon the small branch; it suddenly disappearing under the quickening flow of the stream.

Written for Jeremy’s Daily Challenge  The requirements:

  • The painting: The Visitor by Janet Mayled
  • The theme prompt: Reflections on a window
  • Around 200 words (248)


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