Sunblock

The grease on her hands was still fresh from the sunblock bottle. Her skin reflected the sun blindingly, and she prayed she'd tan and not burn. Her entire body smelled that familiar scent. The one from her memories of days at the beach.

She lived in Arizona, so these memories were rare for these parts. But there they were, settled and imprinted in her mind. Days in the sand, the grains leaving small dents in her skin. Trying to rub them off, laughing because the sunblock caused the sand to clump. She remembered running to the water, only to race back again screaming as the water nipped at her heels. Her brother used to grab her and hold her in the icy waters. She remembered her mother calling her over and rubbing the sunblock on her back and neck. Insisting she keep it on her ears too, forgetting and getting red ears the next day.

She sighed and rubbed more sunblock onto her long legs, now twice the length of her own child's. Setting down the bottle she made to get up, then paused. She reached down and took a smear. Then she rubbed her ears.