Friday mornings at your place takes me back to Sunday mornings at my childhood home. My parents’ bedroom door open. My father’s favorite perfume and the cold air slowly seeping out, bergamot and lavender particles filling the air, me being six years old in the shower, taking it all in. It was that specific moment and that specific sensory experience, nothing more and nothing less, that was etched in my brain until this very day. Your hug comforting like a father’s. My memory disoriented like a lover’s. My heart gentle and defeated. Like a daughter’s.