““What could you give me," I ask, my voice shaking, "To make me forget . . . that you forgot about me?" My mother hesitates for a moment, and then walks stiffly to her shelves. She pulls down three containers and a glass missing bowl. She opens the seals. I smell nutmeg, summertime, a distillation of hope. But she does not mix me a poultice or make a roux for me to swallow. She doesn't wrap my wrists with green silk or tell me to blow out three squat candles. Instead, she comes hesitantly around her workbench. She folds me into her arms, even as I tire to break free. She refuses to let go, the whole time that I cry.””
