My earliest memory comes wrapped in glossy red paper like a box of candy, like the chocolate ones with cherries inside of them. I couldn’t have been more than eight. Rain hitting my window, I’m home from school, and my toys are on the floor. But I don’t want to play. I’m in bed with a fever. My sheets are sticking to my legs and the roof feels like it’s going to cave in. I don’t want to play, I just want to feel OK again. I’m shivering. My vision is glazed with red. Everything is suffused in this light.

Mami’s hands are so cold. She holds a glass of water to my lips and every swallow is like fire to my throat. I try to say something but the words are cotton balls in my mouth, shapeless, without form or meaning. So I cry instead, the way infants do when language fails them. I cry and the tears flood down the sheets, soaking my hair and my pillow.

Mami walks away, her scarlet skirt swirling around her legs like petals. Mami, I cry. Shh, mi vida, I’ll be right back. I want to show you something. Just rest.