Taking off my watch and my rings, there’s a stark white line
where each rests. My face not only
has more freckles, but is darker.
My arms are tinged red, after working in the sun. My feet are striped and scarred from sun
and bugs alike. My hair is
two-toned, blonde and auburn-brown, striping and fading into split ends.
Three months from when I left, my appearance is already
changed. Three months from when I
left, my mind is already changed.
The cold showers, the hot days, the people, the food, the time. I am already a changed person, already
adjusting into my new home and community.
Time is a fickle beast. She moves fast and slow when most convenient to none other
than herself. These three months
has felt at once as though they slide and slither slowly, and as though they
are dripping through my fingers like sand. I am at once moving at the speed of light and slowly enough
to watch the trees grow.
The physical changes have taken me by surprise more than the
emotional changes. I expected to
change mentally, to view the world differently through the lenses of a foreign
country and language. I expected
to have my eyes opened by the people I interact with, both within my community
and other volunteers. I expected
to change.
The tanlines, both physical and emotional, have taken me by
surprise. That I can see where I
have changed and where I am the same.
Where a part of my skin is protected and hidden and kept virgin to the sun,
to the culture, to the change. Yet
another part, right alongside, is changing. I’m a patchwork of new and old.
Aware of how early on I still am, I look forward in
anticipation. What will remain the
same? What part of my soul will my
bracelets cover? What part of my
head do my clothes protect? And
the lines of my shoes? Do the
protected parts truly remain the same, or is the simple fact they lay next to
darker skin changing them, too? Who will I be when I return?
Or will I become addicted to the color and continue living
in the land of the sun?
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