There is a distinctive smell to my house that I’m only aware
of in the first few moments when I walk in the door after being gone a few
hours, but even more so when I come home from a few days away. It smells like
“home”.
On a day to day basis, I never notice the smell, but after a
time away it is a precious bouquet of safety, comfort, and love. I’ve tried to pin
down the smell. There is a faint scent of baking bread, with overtones of Murphy’s
soap and lavender. When I breathe deeper I smell grass and wood and animals.
My teenagers have a potent aroma all their own, a blend of
hormones, sweat, and hair products. It’s especially overpowering first thing in
the morning or seated beside one of them in the car. When they were babies I
craved the scent of them. It was a sour, sticky, sweet perfume. On nights when
their frightened cries or my own fears drove me the nursery in the dark center
of night, that familiar scent calmed me. Snuggling the sweaty, limp body close
I would breathe in deep and wish that I could bottle it.
