Six years ago, I was nineteen. I was freshly tattooed,
sun-kissed, perpetually covered in sand, and I smelled of sunscreen and salt
water. I spent more time wet than I did dry, and I loved every moment of it. My
biggest fear was getting nipped by a baby tiger shark—there was a nursery a few
miles out of my favorite surf spot. My biggest worry was being late to class
because I had had to catch one more wave. During the week, I went to class and
lay on the beach doing my homework assignments. During the weekend, I
lifeguarded and surfed.
Now, I’m 25.
I have been for almost 3 months. My skin hasn’t seen the sun since last August,
and if the sun saw my skin now, he wouldn’t recognize it. It’s not only pale,
but it’s also been stretched and scarred. I haven’t stepped in sand or salt
water in years, and I smell of sour milk. My biggest fear is losing the piece
of my soul that I grew within me and pushed out into this world. My biggest
worry is that somehow I’ll mess up; she’ll have a cough that I should have
known was more than just a cough. She’ll have a fever that I should have felt.
Something will happen—something I should have sensed or seen—and just like
that, she’ll be taken from me. Some days I tame this fear. Some days I live in
its constant shadow. It’s amazing what six years will do.
