The White Seahorse

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The swimming costume sticks to her ribs and rubs her skin the wrong way, as she advances on her chlorinated walk to hell. Mum has sewn a plastic white seahorse on the lower right, close to the suit’s seams. She keeps feeling its rough surface as she slowly takes the stairs up to the pool.

Do you want to get back to the white seahorse?

Not really, says the child.

Stupid kid. Off you go to the yellow seahorse queue then.

Dora closes her eyes. She wants to imagine a life where the is no trip back from the countryside on Sunday night. When there is no stop on the highway rest area either. And of course no need to rush out of the car and throw up her half-digested snack.

But she can’t control the car motion and here we have yet another Sunday night commute to the city. The football radio show keeps blasting away. The car smells of old cigar and dad is sipping on a beer. While on the wheel.

These are the eighties, mind you.

Pull the windows down. I need some fresh air. I want to levitate over the highway, catch my breath and fly back to the country house.

Anything to escape Monday’s swimming lessons, 10 am sharp.

To this day I still remember the white seahorse.

I ended up with two of them by the age of five.

The Author

Woman. Floaty. Attached. Dettached. Sudden. Note-scribbler. Citizen of the world. Travelling to the moon and back.

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