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 Egyptian father. My dad, a sun-worshiper too.
The water. The mesmerizing, serene blue, which, when uninhabited, was without a ripple in it, allowing me to manipulate its surface however I wanted.
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 am a water baby, 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?
This is not 1996. The halogen lights demean me, in a windowless room on floor 22. I will stay away from the sun, and I will wear sunscreen. I will go to work, I will get married, and live in a house with a welcome mat at my front door and an agreeable dog out back. I will pay my bills. I will go to Church. I will drive safely. I will stay away from the sun.
When did everything change? I can't remember anything in between back then, and right now.
I am full of fear. I am a water baby.
No water and I am drowning.