My mamí always had fragrant cremas on her hands. She would put them on daily, always using them in the morning, before leaving for work. They came in these little round pastel bottles with gold and silver caps. As a girl I would play with the botellitas, stacking them, cutting circles of paper and using the cremas to make paper tortillas. Opening them all, I’d take a fingertip’s worth of each one and create a nauseating concoction. To this day, every time I smell one of these scents, I’m taken back to my mamí’s room. Like a snapshot, I see the crisply pulled linen across the bed. I feel the oscillating fan blowing the humid summer air through the room, and see the crocheted lace on every nightstand.
