Childhood
I rediscovered swimming. The butterflystroke, frontstroke, backstroke, breastroke. Jumping into the pool three or four times before finally feeling warm. Nightswimming and dayswimming. Summer playlists for the pool. Floating rafts and beach balls. My mind races as I try to think of games I played as a child. We swam with the snow falling down and the occasional snowball getting chucked at our heads, stormy weather where my porcelain skin can't get touched, and the occasional overly-sunny day where I might get the opportunity to cover the farmer's tan I received while steaming table cloths at the red and orange wedding. I still get chuckled at everytime I emerge from the pool or in any outfit that might conceal the defined line and above that the sun hasn't seen. Losing something and then finding it again is refreshing.
The smell of chlorine has filled my nose for a few weeks now. Everytime I waste my day away in the water, I remember things that only re-enacting could bring back. I convinced my mother to let Hillery stay at my apartment for thirty minutes longer because the pool closes at 10pm and it's one of my last opportunities to go swimming before leaving my continually-strange-smelling apartment (usually from the rotting bananas or hidden piece of chicken on the floor). My mother agreed, after making me promise to take the Strong Vocational Interests Test. She thinks it will be a life changing experience and allow me to decide exactly what I want to do with my life. I laugh at her.
After giving her consent, we jumped into our swim suits. Chuckles followed us as we sported our multi-colored skin. We hurried to the pool. Diving in and out multiple times to calm our chattering teeth. Finally we felt ok. "The color game!" Hillery shouted. What was the color game? Do I even remember? "Where you choose a color and dunk the person in the water everytime they guess wrong, then the full dunk when they guess right." So it began, color after color, "Green," dunk, "Purple," dunk "yellow, blue, black, white," dunk, dunk, dunk, dunk. "Rainbow!!" dunk dunk dunk dunk dunk. Hillery wasn't very good at this game. "If it's not in a box of crayola 24 colors it doesn't work." Gray. The game was repeated and repeated. I'm sure the 20 or so group of people outside of the pool laughed as they heard us carry on with our child's play. Elbow playing, pool baptism, and laps after finally deciding Hillery would never guess copper. It might not be in the 24 crayon box, but I haven't seen one of those in years. Crayons are never in boxes anymore. They're on the table of a restaurant, in a rubbermaid box, or broken from being poorly stored. We hold our breath in the pool, counting the seconds till we can heave in a new batch of air.
Swimming laps till pool curfew, arriving soaked on the doorstep. We clean ourselves up. I continue reading. Hillery drives home to continue personal progress. Our begging to stay in the pool is not, "Mommy just a few more minutes..." it's, "Can I have the car for another half hour? Please..." And if so I'll take a test that will point me in the right direction for a career. But breathing in chlorine still feels the same.
