When I was seven

I was about seven years old.

My brother and I were playing with my father in the living room. It was Saturday morning, my mother was at work. It was very nice as we he didn’t spend much time with us. He wasn’t home much during the week; in the evenings, but never had a disposition to even have a conversation with us. He was around in the weekends but he would spend most of his time in his studio. We would fix our own breakfast and play or watch TV until my mother was back from work. Then she would cook and we would all sit to have lunch. After that we would just be around the house, or do something with mum, he would be doing something else, reading mostly, is what I remember; or he would just disappear in his studio room.

That day we were playing, probably it wasn’t the only time we played with him; it was just not the usual. He was lifting us and throwing us high and catching us low on the way down. We were always amused by his strength and we enjoyed being lifted, thrown and catch, as if we were light feathers.

At some point I was being lifted by the chest, his hands were my non existent breast were. I was trying to hold my legs up to be horizontal, as if I was flying. He turned to my brother and said something like: “you have to take your chances now, because when they grow up they don’t let you touch their breasts”. Soon after, I said I was tired of the position and he put me down. I wasn’t tired, I was just uncomfortable. I didn´t even know why but I didn’t like the grabbing that was involved in the game anymore. I said I felt dizzy from all the spinning and going up and down, and I went to the room to lay down a bit. After a few minutes I took a toy and went to see what they were doing. I just sat there, in the other side of the living room, and play with my toy. Soon my dad was tired of playing and my brother came to play something with me.