Home has never been one place for me, it is wherever I feel safe and happy. Home smells like salty-seaweed fog from the Pacific and crisp mountain breezes. It smells like my mom making dinner and the smoke from my dad's pipe. Like candles and smoke, laundry and dryer sheets, christmas pine trees and peppermint hot chocolate. There isn't one smell that could capture it all.

To me, home smells like bedding and new books.

All the time I spend reading makes books smell like home... And my bedding smells so good. It smells like soap, and it always seems to have the lingering, perfumy, smell of my grandparent's house.

Both grandparents.

Home smells like my mothers delicous Shredded Beef Stew. Home smells like bananas and powdered-sugur-donuts. Home smells as crisp as snow, and as fresh as rain. Home smells like memories.

Home smells like spices,

chilli, cardamom and clove,

the smell all coming from the stove,

your tongue starts to roar,

but you still want some more.

Home smells like sugar,

cookies, chocolate and cinnamon roll,

the smell coming from the bright blue bowl,

your sweet tooth starts to hurt,

but you still want some more.

Home smells pungent,

onions, garlic and shallot,

the striking smell coming from the pan,

your eyes start to water,

but you still want some more.

Home smells fishy,

sweet, sour and spicy

all ingredients jingle together,

making your tongue tingle,

but you still want some more.

Because when you open the door,

you smell love that you really adore.

- Reet Sapra

Home smells like aged Parmesan

Kentucky bluegrass, freshly lawned

Northern red oak, quarter-sawn

And dew warmed in the early dawn

Savored scents — tobacco pipes

Peaches, picked, perfectly ripe

Lemons in sweet tea on ice

And aftershave made of old spice

Aroma mixed of fresh baked bread

Motor oil and Sunday’s spread

Egyptian cotton, thousand thread

Where lucid dreams awake grief’s bed:

A home fragrant of baby’s breath

And fresh carnation’s smell of death

My broken heart spilling, bereft,

The salty tears that sense regret

I walk in through the battered door

And the smell of home drifts towards me

I hear my dog's footsteps padding on the floor

When I am home, I am finally free

I plunge my face into my pillow

I smell the softly laundered padding

My hair, it seems to billow

Out on the soft fabric of the bedding

I come into the kitchen

What is that smell? My mother's dishes

The steaming, bubbling pots are filled to the top

When my mother cooks, hunger diminishes

Home's most important smell of all

Is the scent of a loved one's hug

The warm embrace, a caring face

And the feeling of being safe and snug

:)

My house smells of Fabuloso con Cloro.

Of both judgement and orgullo.

Of those whom will open a lifetime of insecurities;

As they praise you to the outside world.

It smells of generational strength.

Of overcome triumph.

Of strategic unity.

Of deep-grounded roots and unrealistic goals.

Standards set to The Gods y Los Santos.

Limitations buried by my ancestors.

My house smells of pelas and dignidad.

Of manners and "Si, señora". Respect.

Of ingrained hurt.

Of century filled cover-ups.

Protecting those we love, No Matter What.

My house smells of familia y amor.

Luscious green leaves cast shade over concrete. The palm frons litter the dirt and the grass, splashing vibrant browns inbetween tropical emeralds. Rain from the stars break the serenity and tackle the smoke.

It is always darker when I walk inside, and the scent always hits me afterward. It is cloth, it is fur, but never is it leather.

Marked on my skin is always a smell of bamboo and water, and on my palate the taste of grain, steamed and humid.

The soil beneath my feet centers me, and just so for my mind is dizzy, delighted.

It delights in the aroma of earth and clay, and of rice cooker soon to signal dinner.

These are my visions of home.

How I long to return and to stay.

Home smells like dirt,

Tracked in by little feet.

Snow fallen from shoes,

Collected on the way to the people we meet.

Home is dust and baking cookies.

It's cupcakes and old stuffed cats.

Dry books,

And kitty litter.

Home smells like love,

And shiny new shoes.

Hot chocolate,

Homade noodles,

Homade soup.

Musty,

Faintly sweaty,

After snow clothes removed,

After a day out in winter.

Fresh and flowery.

Fresh water and cut grass,

Through the open windows in summer.

Rain and acrylic paints,

Baking bread.

Accident-prone children,

And burned curtains.

Home smells like wood stain,

And sawdust.

Like old fabric,

And hot glue.

It smells like watery sunshine,

And like laundry detergent.

Chocolate,

And fresh spices.

Home smells like mess,

But it also smells like comfort.

I opened my hand and let my suitcase fall to the ground of my hotel room. I shivered. This place was freezing. I rubbed the polyster blankets between my fingertips. And so… stiff.

After unzipping my suitcase, I threw my worn wool blanket from home over the pristine, but fake, hotel bed. I bounced on top of it, but it was stiff under my spine. Just not quite like home.

My nose twitched in the air. Maybe it was the smell. It just didn’t smell like home. I removed a can of febreeze from my suitcase and spritzed the air a couple of times. It was the same scent and brand from the one I used at home.

Now, my room smelled like a beach. I didn’t live on a beach. It still just didn’t smell like home.

Exhausted, I dumped my dirty laundry into the closet. It was going to be a long trip. I would have to see if they have a washing machine I could use. Sniffing the air again, I sighed. A very long trip.

Then, I paused and exhaled again. For some reason I couldn’t quite place, it was beginning to smell like home. Yet, still not there.

My stomach grumbled. I took out the sushi I bought for lunch—yesterday. Part of me complained internally—but it wasn’t my stomach so I opened up the cheap, plastic container. The scent of old fish sucker-punched my poor nostrils. Gagging, I flushed it down the toilet.

I jumped back on my bed. The smell was closer to home now, but still not there.

My stomach yelled at me again. Still starving. I glanced at my purse for a last resort. Pulling out a little baggy of burnt homemade cookies, I gulped. They were practically black. Begrudging, I cracked open the bag and took a bite.

Then, shockingly, I smiled.

Not because of the cookies, they tasted like ash. Absolutely terrible. But the smell. It smelled just like home now.

It’s the smell of the three day old tuna I keep buying and I tell myself that I’ll finally make my own sushi—but never do. It’s the smell of burnt batch of cookies I make—but keep making anyway because I’m convinced that one day they’ll turn out perfect. And the smell of the fake febreeze spray I use to cover it all up the next morning.

The promises I don’t keep (like the tuna). The promises I do keep (like the cookies). And how I try to start again every day(with the new febreze).

It all blends together in the air, in my home. Because that’s me. That’s how I blend together.

I pounced back onto the wool blanket. It’s warm and soft, welcoming me. No longer the stiff hotel room I first walked into. I snuggled in, closed my eyes, and went to sleep. Finally at true peace.

Is it the warm vanilla and coconut scent of wild gorse overlaid with the scent of pony sweat? Or the smell of saddle soap on old leather as we cleaned saddles in front of a oak wood fire?

Or could it be the spring scent of a pine forest weaving itself with the sweet smell of a newborn child?

Maybe it’s the comforting smell of the byre and the soft odour of new milk and the sweetness of a cows breath.

Could it be the scent of the pittosporum the night wind, or the sweet comfort of tree ripened peaches, their velvet skin soft in the pickers hand?

Or shall I claim it for the cold clean scent of salt water, fresh brewed coffee and smell of new baked bread in my ever changing, ever fluid home on the high sea?