A few years ago, I caught the smell of a particular hand cream in a shop and was, for a moment, entirely somewhere else. Not remembering somewhere else. Somewhere else. My grandmother's kitchen, a specific afternoon, the quality of the light, a feeling in my body that I had not had in decades and that arrived whole, instantly, before I had time to think the word memory at all. I was not recalling the past. I was, in some sense I could not account for, back inside it.