My bare feet leap
across cool pebbles
– white, cream, and brown –
towards Aunt Sarah
Her body
sunken into yellow plastic laths.
I pull her arm from rest towards my eyes and
inspect each sunspots.
No magnifying glass or microscope needed.
I ask why one spot is dark while another is light.
I stretch my own arm – tiny and pale – against hers.
Her smile widens,
exposing dentures and stained teeth,
years of cigarettes, tea, and coffee.
She mutters something about the sun
and then
tickles my sticky summer Florida skin.
Yet, I’m persistent.
My nimble hands pull
her arm
towards me again.
With pinched fingers, I bring hand to mouth
and devour the sunspots –
vanilla, butterscotch, and chocolate.
I eat away her cancer
one bite at a time.
Thirty-five years later,
I inspect my own arms
and legs
and neck
and face
for Aunt Sarah’s sunspots,
my inheritance,
and wonder what will become of
me.
