The Changing Colors of Skin

Carole Mertz

Though I had no ideographs

like those of a Chinese girl, 

I relished the joy of selecting 

the colors from the crayon

box. Age, seven years,

my hair was curled by Mother

into fascinating long ringlets.

Fascinating even to me.

 

The marks I made on the page

were likely the first chapters of

my little-girl life. Frustrated though, 

I had no just-right color for skin. That

changed, Crayola adjusted. Our

world adapted, too, into these 

many new shades of skin. Life 

became fascinating, like my curls.