We all have time machines within. Sights, smells, and experiences combine to warp us to a place where we first smelled that — heard that — tasted that — felt that.

I smell wallpaper paste, and I’m 6 years old, helping Mama stick wallpaper over wood paneling in my brother’s bedroom. I mix water with powder and paint the sticky mess onto long strips of rainbow-striped wallpaper.

I stick the strips to the wall, and they wrinkle and bubble like pancakes on a griddle.

I leave Mama to her work to find my brother. I tell him to moon a passerby out the living room window. When he does, I tell Mama. She comes running into the living room to fuss at him and ask him to pull up his pants.

I’m not sure why I tattled. There was no malice behind it.

It all comes back to me via a wallpaper paste time machine.