Tattoo

Although the pool is warm the cold wetness as it soaks into my hair makes me shudder. I ease myself back and push off the side leisurely rotating my arms in a slow backstroke. I keep things unhurried so as not to let any water droplets blur my goggles. The echoing shrieks are muffled as the water laps around my ears, cutting me off from the outside world.

As I traverse the pool I stare up through the glass ceiling noticing that several long hairline cracks have spread like an intricate spiders web. Some of the glass has yellowed with time, and there is that greenish growth you often get around swimming pools collecting in the seams.
But even here in Tunisia the sky is a vivid blue through the steamy outlook, I always acknowledge to myself how that is something that has never changed; the sky still looks exactly the same as it always has, infinite limitless, and blue.

The kids are buzzing around us like flies, interrupting each other to tell tales from kid’s club. I play eye spy with the little one, drawing out just a little longer on the sun lounger before his fizzing energy becomes too much and propels us off.

“T is for tree”, I suggest, glancing at the tall palm trees swaying in the light breeze on the horizon, wondering if he would categorize them as such. A shake of the head provokes a comedy furrowing of my brow. “T is for towel then.” I offer triumphantly patting the sun lounger beneath me, secretly pleased at my guess.
“Nope.” Is his blunt reply. I now know to shrug and give in; his delight in beating me is palpable.

T is for tattoo Mummy !” he shrieks, pointing wildly over my shoulder.

I try to suppress my smile but it climbs up onto my face anyway. I delight not only in his innocent and astute observations of our hotel companions, but also in his total lack of social awareness.

That is something which at the grand age of four, I have no intention of correcting.

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