Freckles

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My family’s faces are like ghosts in winter and are tomatoes in summer—always burnt from the sun’s hot rays. My mom, the smart one, always wears sunscreen which minimizes the tomato effect. Dad gets a “tan” line on his forehead from his Packers hat. I—never ceasing to believe in the miracle of a tan—am almost always burnt during the warm months.
But only my sister has freckles. Perfect, year-round, intensified- by- the- beating- sun freckles. Angel kisses that dance on her face and accompany her emerald eyes. They are perfect—evenly spaced, flawlessly round, brown-red tones that match her hair—perfect. They serve to enhance her generally spotless complexion and quiet but friendly personality. While I may seek to master the elusive tan, she only wants her freckles. When she walks by, the seasonal smell of sunscreen—Banana Boat—can be easily detected. For my sister knows it would be a crime for the sun’s vengeance to cover up her freckles. Her perfect freckles.





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