When I was about five we lived in a tiny little town on the Orange River. We spent our weekends on the river: fishing, camping, swimming. The river moved slowly and quietly. The only sounds came from the piet-my-vrous, doves, cicadas. They combined to make the hot, high-pitched buzzing of summer. I remember peacefully floating on inner tubes, the big black ones. You smelt the river, the trees, warmed rubber and it was perfection.
Yesterday I experienced it again.
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