As a boy, I lived in a farmhouse set on a hill with a drive that sloped down to the main road. In the summer, as my father and brothers washed the family cars, a rivulet of soapy water would slowly wind its way down the drive, and I would walk alongside, following it down until it reached the road. There the soapy trace ended in a small pool, and I would kneel down to watch the swirling streams of color in the soap and the oil from the asphalt road, lit by the summer sun.
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