Five years of wonder, you sit beside me wrapped in a bright beach towel. Your sun-bleached hair, wet and soppy, mopped into twizzler strands. The chlorine odor lifts from your shoulder, between teenage whistles and splashing water. Soon, we will pop open a honey jar and peel the thyme for our pickled strawberries. But first, my attention tugs toward three tiny fingers pinching the skin of my left limb. As I look down, you say with surprise, You have so many polka dots on your arm! I crack a smile and attempt to explain, careful not to dismiss how small your world is. I tell you, These are not polka dots, these are called freckles. I then proceed to teach the difference between the two; how melanin releases to protect the skin from sun damage. I signal toward watercolor splatter on my own shoulder– the map of freckles. I ask if there are any freckles on your body. You eagerly point to a single mole near your armpit. I smile quietly to myself, attempting to preserve the naivete. Because, in the next week you must survive your parents’ divorce and somehow not feel left out when dad starts to make out on the dance floor with a new woman who sleeps where mommy used to sleep. This stranger will kiss your baby sister a dozen times in a row when daddy holds her, a few feet away from you– only a few days after he signs the papers. You will drop your head and pretend to fix your shoes. Where is the protection from this premature exposure- the rushed changes bypassing your needs? These very grown up feelings are much too complicated for your underdeveloped body. I wish I could cover you in polka dots.
The Word Mill 