My mother now is different than the mother of my childhood memories. I remember the latter in comforting rhymes. She sang a song that healed every scraped knee and bumped head:
Sana, sana, colita de rana
Si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana
It was a nonsensical song meaning, “Heal, heal, little frog tail / If it doesn’t heal today, it’ll heal tomorrow.” While I never knew its meaning, the cure-all was more powerful than any Disney-themed band-aid. She taught my sister and me the colors and numbers in Spanish, although I had a hard time remembering “amarillo” because it was the hardest to say. She asked us endearing questions: Did I want “espaghetti” for dinner or some Jell-O-colored yellow she’d made for me.