Bee-ing

Oooo. I flex my toes in the sun. The blonde hairs reach beyond the skin. Luckily, my nails are short. I’ve brought a book, but I look around. I look around. White couples of friends or lovers or families stroll around me. I watch a little girl yank down a pink-flowered tree branch. Her family is oblivious as the pink petals flutter about in a flurry of motion. I question her tactics, but realize a bird or spastic squirrel or strong wind could have done the same damage, so I leave her be. Her motives for yanking and pulling on the tree with such force remains unknown.
I sit in the sun. I play with a stick. I poke at the grass. I have friends who can walk and talk and sing and dance and eat and drink and look all around. I have trouble enough just being. I don’t know anyone who gets as distracted with being as I do.
I turn my hands in the sun. My skin will have to decide soon, as it does every summer, which skin it wants to be. Will you turn red like my caucasian mother, almost as if you’re allergic to the sun’s exposure? Or will you turn that dusty gold remnant of my father’s blood. You skin.
I play with my hair. I pull the pads of my fingers across my scalp. This morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and realized–you’re gone. I can cut my hair. I can change that face in the mirror. As I do when the mourning ends. I don’t feel you around anymore, so this hair has got to go. This place where the American dream is so heavily realized and demonstrated disgusts me, but the fact that I can saunter in to a salon on a Sunday and get my hair cut for less than $20 did not bother me today. You go, USA. As I pull and twist, I notice–there is a small white petal in my hair.
I lie on my back to give my legs more face time with the sun. My back curves against the bumps in the ground. Above my head are leaves interspersed with tiny white flowers. The home of my hair petal. A bee searches among the petals. As he bops, the petals fall. I think about how hard we try to control the universe and how we forget that we can never have full say or the final word. How there are so many small pieces moving about that go unnoticed. All the effects of all the things we aren’t privy to.
The best thing about sitting alone in the sun is that I only have to stay as long as I want.
The sun makes me languid and warm. Later, I will nap so hard on my couch the sound of my own snores will wake me. What a lazy time.

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