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Whirlpool of memories


In the house I grew up in we had a great swimmingpool. My brother and I enjoyed it immensely and swam like dolphins all day long during the summers. The mornings began with a quick swim, the first thing we did, when we returned from school was diving through the water. In the wintertime we would run from the sauna and jump headfirst through the icecubes on the surface.

But we were the spoiled ones who weren’t responsible for the cleaning. My father was. And it was a fulltime job. Letting the water out, filling more water in, “vacuum-cleaning” the leaves out of the water. Adjusting the percentage of chlorine and purifyer. Throughout my childhood I remember the goggling noice of the water running the pipes into the basement-sewer. And I remember staring at the whirlpool-patterns for hours and hours.

And I had forgotten all about that untill a few weeks ago when – recently – my father moved back into the house after ten years abroad. I heard it immidiately when I last went to visit. And I ran into the basement to gaze into the hypnotizing circle-waves of my childhood.

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