Chameleon

Years of worshipping the Sun God are changing me: the beach baby I was is no more. Sun whisperer says, Get Ready. Clear your mind. Be one of a kind. Each day he takes his marker out and claims more and more territory, and I become deciduous, more like indigenous: the Cigar Store Indian, the turbaned lady on a cardboard box-- not like strips from sugarcane stalks my father brought home from mountain trips, but the plump blueberries he made into pies, or the wild blackberries like miniature hives meandering the sand hills beyond our house. Resistance to change is the end, they say. So I bend, I bend...