A slight tan forms a horizon line just above my knees, my legs are dotted with a constellation of mosquito bites, a patchwork of bruises adds splotches of color. They tell the story of summer evenings stumbling through tall grass and clambering over rocks by the ocean. They sing sonnets about creaky swingsets and explorations into crumbling forts. They paint the picture of a summer spent tripping and falling, smiling and laughing--eyes looking everywhere except the ground on which I walk. Grass stains wash out and salt water dries; marks left on the pale canvas of my legs linger.