My trip to Sacramento was meant to be part of my healing. The family I’m visiting is from my hometown, and the mother, who is here visiting her son, was a colleague of my mom’s for years. I wanted to spend time with her to reconnect with a side of my mother that I didn’t fully know.
The son and his wife used to live on the East Coast, and during one of his mother’s visits, they came to our house. Since then, we’ve stayed in touch. During one of our phone calls, they invited me to visit, and I accepted.
After lunch, I settled into my room and went to the bathroom for a quick freshen-up. I’m sharing the bathroom with the mother, and the first thing I noticed was a bottle of Cetaphil sitting on the counter. I didn’t know what to do, and before I realized it, a sinking feeling of missing my mother terribly washed over me.
That simple sight transported me back to thoughts of my mother and her eternal love for this particular cream. It was a constant on my shopping list for Amma—her favorite. Just last week, I was talking to my sister about our next trip, and she reminded me, "Don’t bother buying Cetaphil this time—Amma's cupboard still has a couple of them."
How do certain objects become symbols, connecting us to the people we’ve lost? The Cetaphil on my bathroom counter never made me feel lost like this.
I couldn’t help but think, what is it with moms and their love for Cetaphil?
Lake Tahoe
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