Citlaly Penelope Gasca

Cozy Weather

As the wax softens and melts, it teases me, inviting my finger to dip in. The cozy, soft aroma makes my eyes roll back and transports me back to the holiday season before everything changed.

I believed in Santa long after I probably should have. His arrival meant matching PJs in front of the fireplace and listening to the adults talk over whatever Christmas movie was playing on the tv. My mom’s blonde hair bobbed up and down whenever she spoke; her infectious laugh echoed through the white picket fence house, and I questioned if whatever she heard was that funny. His presence meant peace and hope–just for a little while, anyway.

I don’t remember Christmas before we moved into that house. Before, my older brother's and I’s nights would involve making ourselves comfortable in two folding chairs with someone’s jacket covering us as we dozed off to the blasting Spanish music and smell of tangy stale air. 

But then my mom met my stepdad, and everything changed. I ran to him, screaming in glee the first time I met him. There were plates with fresh food laid out at the table, and my mom looked put together. 

There was never a time when she wasn't, though. 

Seeing a home-cooked meal and my mom smiling at home, I thought my dad had finally come back. After the embarrassing clarification and a red-hot face from grabbing a stranger, the feeling of hope didn’t deflate in my tummy.

It was safe for me to harvest those feelings because everything was changing. My mom was in the house more, and those loud nights became less frequent. A short while later, my mom, with her three kids, left behind the broken and tainted small apartment we used to live in with my dad, and moved into a roomy brick house that picket white fences surrounded. 

There was an enormous oak tree overlooking the front of my house. I would love to see the leaves change color until they fell off, announcing what would come next. As soon as the holidays hit, my mom would redecorate the entire house with whatever aesthetic she thought of that year and the warm feeling in my belly would return.

One year, she decided on azul marino and silver. That was the most special Christmas yet. 

After only being allowed to open one gift at midnight, my little sister and I woke up as soon as the sun blessed our eyelids as it rose onto the horizon. We ran out of our room in our matching PJs and found our mom in the living room waiting for us. She had created a spread of all her beauty items for a makeover. For the first time, I could touch and play with them without doing it behind her back, and even better, without getting in trouble for it. I took over, named myself her sole makeup artist, and told my sister she could only do mom’s hair. My heart spiked as an itchy sensation grew in my chest when I saw my sister cry. Time stood still as I waited for the blow to register, telling me I ruined everything again. To my surprise, my mom hugged my sister and softly told us we could take turns doing her makeup. If it were another time, I probably would’ve been upset that I didn’t get what I wanted, but the sun created a spotlight on my mom’s natural radiant beauty, and I didn’t want to take that away from her. She deserved to be at peace, and I deserved to have a gentle mother finally. We spent the entire morning talking, laughing, and creating a makeover for a softer family.

Too soon, everything changed again. 

In the spring, I saw my mom being taken away from me and the future I had created in my naïve head. She returned to a country that hadn’t been her home for over a decade. She had to leave behind her dance studio business, loved ones she grew up with, valuable belongings, and her three American children. My brother was with his dad, and my four-year-old sister went with my stepdad to the border, but I stayed behind. 

I was mad and hurt. The only way I knew how to acknowledge those feelings was through arguing with my mom. We had just fought, so I passed on spending her last moment in America with her. I don’t remember what the argument was about, but the image of her leaving has haunted me since. I stood all alone as I watched the car get further away from me and my picket white fence house. 

I walked back into the empty house that rubbed in my face all the reminders of what I could never get again. As I crossed the threshold of my new reality, I noticed the wax melter being left on, suffocating the living room with the soft scent of sandalwood and hope. I switched it off and dipped the tip of my finger into the soft, hot wax, watching it harden the longer I stood there.