Sunburn

I admitted to my mother on the phone that I did not wear a hat the day before. Which was a mistake, since, we said almost in unison, my scalp always burns. It’s August, I should know better.

The picnic was a serious affair, in the sense that we did not just pop to Gail’s on the way. We coordinated who would bring the Wotsits and the Ritz Crackers. Who had a knife for cheese that was blunt enough to smuggle on the Overground, but suitably sharp to slice cleanly through brie and crumbly cheddar. I had splashed out on a baguette from Budgens and felt that the subsequent rush of self-importance was both justified and deserved.

I am always the first to arrive to these things, leaving enough time for my mind to spin and for my hands to go brown from picking at the lush grass. But soon enough, there was a blanket between us. Three women sat in my line of vision, all so sure of themselves. I thought, then, I have some catching up to do. There is so much of my child self within me; she is loud and unforgiving, but bound to me for always, I fear.

The sun and the food were delicious. My fingers went from muddy to clean (hand sanitiser having been borrowed) to red from too many strawberries. We sipped M&S prosecco and watched the clouds glaze over our heads, our laughter carrying in the breeze.

The eldest of us held a tangerine segment up to the light. To check for pips, she said. I saw one, a dark spot looming in the deep amber veins; a tumour on a lung. She sucked it out and threw it over her left shoulder, like salt. I glanced at her lips for a sign of a muttered wish. Nothing. There was no need for it. I tilted my head towards the empty space behind her and thought, there won’t be an orange tree. Some tiny thing will gobble up the seed and sleep in its burrow, satisfied. I knew, then, that I would float back to the bus, full, scalp hot but not yet itching. My skin would earmark the thrum of that summer’s heat, the love that only needs a few hours to curl up in its usual spot; to lift our chins and say, I am here, again.

Beth Punnett (she/they) is a poet based in North London. They write best when out walking, when memories are sharp and it's just them and their notes app. You can find them on Instagram - @poetbeth