When I was about 11 (I assume, because the memories of my childhood aren’t very many or time-accurate, I could’ve been 13 or 9 too really, what do I know? Maybe I should ask my father, anyways), I used to go swimming with my dad. About every friday at 6 – 7 pm. We would swim a bit. And then play a bit. We would take turns ducking down to catch things at the bottom of the pool, or swim in-between the others’ legs. After we would smell of chlorine and drive in the darkness back home.
At home we would have dinner, and maybe pop some popcorn and sit in the living room watching friday night TV-shows. A talent show, or a talk-show. And sometimes even adult, boring talk-shows that didn’t interest me much, but I sat there with my parents because I wanted to spend that time with them.
And I think that when I went to bed those nights, turning my head and dozing off into the smell of chlorine on my pillow, from my still damp hair, I think I was happy then.
I hope I was happy then.