When the sun hits, it gets on her nerves. She has a gap between her teeth, the one who brings luck. She used to cut our hair short because of lice and sewed our clothes on the off-white Singer machine she bought in Dieppe when she was twenty-one. I remember a cute flower costume she once made for mardi gras, with bubblegum petals and green satin leaves. Every time I put it on, I felt so special. She cooked simple dishes, melon, steak, mashed potatoes, and the best chocolate cake. She’s allergic to coffee but never says no to a rice pudding. She keeps a collection of tiny perfumes covered in dust on the bathroom shelves. She used to wear Allure by Chanel but now she has no smell. She never liked makeup but always puts on a raspberry lipstick. Just like me, she has no breasts, but she keeps telling me they will grow someday, just like hers, when I have a child. Her style is great, neat, kind of boyish. She looks chic, even early in the morning, even on a plane. She loves jazz and she knows how to dive. She believes in God. She sings loud at church. She wants to adopt a child in Africa. She never complains. She dances funny, much like Baloo in The Jungle Book, her chest leaning ahead with dangling arms, and her hips popping backward. A day we were walking fast in the pines, she told me right before sunset she never felt pretty. She used to blush over the phone but now it’s ok, now she speaks her mind. She’s warm and smiles a lot. She cares for every soul, a wandering dog, some old lady at the store, a tree. She makes me feel safe. She’s so fine. She took watercolor lessons with a teacher she still shares the same name and hair color with, Véronique and blond. They were friends, now they’re not anymore. She says that’s life. I call her mamoune. It’s like baboon but with an m.