Soft skin, rough skin, light skin, and dark skin, everybody's skin is different. My dad has a rough skin the color of light Californian grapefruits. His skin smells like chlorine from swimming so much in our pool during the summer. My mom's skin is tough. Although she lives in America now and rarely goes outdoors, the tan from hours of laborious work under the radiant sun of Vietnam, is still shadowing her. It follows her like a faithful Labrador, reluctant to leave its weary owner. She smells of scrumptious
pho, my favorite Asian soup. My oldest sister Amy has a pale and delicate skin. So faint, it is almost translucent. Amy's skin smells fragrant like cherry blossoms, but underneath, there is a taint of venom. Poison from lupus. The conniving serpent had bit her when she was thirteen. My skin is silky and pampered from living the typical, lazy life of an American teenager. Only Caress and Biore are allowed to touch me. I smell of Victoria Secret's “Heavenly.” My skin is the color of the light champagne roses in my grandmother’s garden. My middle sister Nancy has skin that smells of Mother Nature's grass. She has a deep American tan. The soccer games that she plays have turned her that way. It turned her American. She can’t even speak our family’s native language anymore. I wish the brilliant, serene sun of Vietnam had touched her smooth skin instead. My only brother Matthew is as tanned as George Hamilton. His skin seems to hum, “Gotta Catch E’m All!” every time I see him, because all he does lately is watch Pokemon. Tracie my youngest sister, who is only three, has butter soft skin and is colored peachy cream. Her skin is the loveliest and most innocent of all. Free from puberty, stress, lies, and fears. It smells like perfectly ripe, red, juicy strawberries. Harmony projects from everything she touches. Her skin is like the pristine clouds floating above, savoring purity until downpour comes. Her skin is what I lost.