46 On Desquamation by Alayna Drollinger Desquamation is an incremental process. Each second, twenty-seven thousand five hundred ninety-three and twenty-five hundredths (27,593.25) skin cells die, flake off, and regenerate. Skin cells compile like seconds in a minute, a clock ticking down to the next death, burial, resurrection. Each minute, one million six hundred fifty-five thousand five hundred ninety-four and ninety-one hundredths (1,655,594.91) skin cells die. Each minute the same number resurrect. The average human has two thousand six hundred thirty-five and one hundredth (2,635.01) skin cells per square inch. Every second, 10.47 inches of skin are remade. Seconds accumulate like dust under a piano, build into minutes, minutes into hours: thirty-seven thousand six hundred ninety-two (37,692) inches overturned, new skin pushing up beneath the old. Inch by inch, second by second by minute by hour. New. Dead. Reborn. You, reader––and I, writer––made of these skin-bags of bone. With this overturning, we are changed. Incrementally, inevitably, irreversibly. How should we greet each other then? Should I reach out my hand––all five two-and-a-half-inch flesh covered appendages with a palm the span of 4 inches consisting of more than fifty thousand sixty-five and nineteen hundredths (50,065.19) skin cells––and say my name? “Hi, I’m Alayna.” A second passes and that is a lie. An amendment: “Hi, I’m more-or-less Alayna.” Would it make it easier if I changed my name? A new name for every second passed? Margaret. Felicity. Emeline. Jordan. Mary. Or let the seconds pass unremarked? They are small. Who (besides God) would notice if we didn’t name them all? Such a small dishonesty isn’t worth much. Where’s the profit in noticing the accumulation of seconds or skin cells? There isn’t much to notice, anyway. Let’s just forget it, put it behind us for now.
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