Monday, July 31, 2017

sun worshipper


The sun and I, we go way back. 

I am a water baby, born into a swimming pool somewhere in California. The consistencies of my youth are remembered by two glorious elements: Sun, and Water. 

I found rare silence and solitude in the depths of the pool. How long can you hold your breath? My long dark hair, bleached golden by the sun, the ends shimmery like a fish's tail in the water. My skin, a blonde-roasted coffee color which perfectly resembled the warm, caramel skin of my father. My dad, a sun-worshiper too.

The water. A mesmerizing, serene blue, which, when uninhabited, was without a ripple in it, allowing me to manipulate its surface however I wanted. I would dive deep into the pool and imagine myself driving a car straight into it. It was probably too shallow to be diving like that. But the danger of the dive excited me. 

Now I have no swimming pool. My doctor says I better avoid the sun, because it can do bad things to my skin. I want to shake her and say, but the sun and I are friends, we go way back. I'm a water baby, I'm my father's daughter; burnt like coffee, sweet like caramel. I can't resist the sun. Its warm, seductive rays. My body vs. my brain. Which one do you think will win? 

But this is not 1996. Here, halogen lights replace the sun, in a windowless doctor's office on floor twenty two. Of course, I say. I'll stay away from the sun. I'll go to work. I'll get married. Pay my bills, and have some kids. Put on sunscreen. Drive safely. 

As I'm leaving, the woman at the front desk says something about insurance, and I stare at her like she has three heads before nodding my head dutifully. Because now we are Adults. 

When did everything change? I can't remember anything happening between back then, and right now. 

I am full of fear. I am a water baby. No water and I am drowning.