When I think of the women in my family, I am enveloped by the humid, dank smell of a late afternoon in Southern Florida. The charred smoke emanating from the back porch and the constant chewing and spitting of dipping tobacco. I recall the slurred speech of older women, pausing momentarily to spit, and the stories they told; how to bandage a badly burned daughter after being turned away from every nearby hospital, how to lower your eyes and not meet their gaze, and of how to survive at all costs. These stories were instructional, to guide me in times of need. My work calls back to my elders, manifesting the stories of the past, to find respite for the future.