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  • In summer my legs turn into target practice for mosquitoes. My heels become cracked and worn and a thin layer of salt permanently sheaths my skin. My hands grow brown and wrinkly, look like they have been working the land for years. A farmer becomes unearthed. I can see what my face might look like when I become old and wrinkly.

    I develop scratches in odd places. I can never remember how I got them...was it a kiss from some barnacle at the beach? Or the gears of my bike? Some stick in the tall grass as I go bounding through?

    Summer is when I become a canvas for the elements. No more hiding under layers and coats, no more fighting the losing battle of man vs. nature.

    In a strange way I like it...these bumps and scratches, tan lines, and shedding skin. I am not impenetrable, nor do I ever want to be.

    I am like clay being molded and shaped by sun, wind, and sea.
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