comme le soleil interminable

My pallid skin was not made for a sun this bright, yet I am just as desperate as the next person to drink it all in, like I would never drink another drop.

It reddens, and it blisters, and it curls – flesh coloured buttercurls – melting away into the lightest shades of caramel.

Before every holiday, I spent hours poring over charts and the colour wheel to see which colour I could grow into, envisioning a glowier version of myself who would smile at me in the reflection. Her hair is wavy despite the constant dying, and the reddish tones will be bleached to a shiny copper that shines in car doors and glimmering pools.

I think back to the tinkling laughter of my girlfriends as I have to slather on yet another layer of aftersun, and I fade into the memory with the warmth of a summer evening. Behind my eyes, we're comparing our tan lines, pale little slivers of ancestry peeking out beneath the brown of the coconut shell.

Every now and then, I forget the colour of my own eyes, but I see them so clearly after the sun. A stark and nitid turquoise blue that tries to rival the ocean floor under the very baking sun that runs across my skin.

I look forward to the time I get to spend with this new version of myself. She never stays long – heritage has a way of seeping back to the surface – but she's nice when she's here. Kind of like the cooler older sister you'd admire with a reveling sense of awe as she puts on her lipstick and her set of glittering rings.

I wasn't born by the sea, but I feel the longing of someone who did. I cannot rest until it is under my feet, and I am closer to a God that I don't understand but unbend beneath. His word carries through the wind in my hair, and although my skin is smouldering, I have never felt more at home.

If heaven is even half as gentle as this little slice of life, I will spend every last one of my days packing my suitcase in preparation. Do you think I'll need suncream?