“Baby, you need an umbrella!”
I was crossing the busy street that divided my neighborhood and my neighborhood. I claimed those ivy covered brick cottages, and meticulous lawns, Cottages that nowhere in my wildest dreams could we afford. She was strolling, electric pink short afro, and even more electric pink talons that were gripping what looked like a PGA-worthy golf umbrella.
“Protect yourself, you’re gonna get burned!”
Could she be referring to my lily white, scalds at the mere hint of sunshine, white skin? Or was it the envy I felt on those morning walks the burn she was referring to?