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.

Home is the smell of

the welcome mat by the front door

the smell of dust and dirt gathering up

Home is the smell of

the blooming flowers in the backyard

the smell of nature

Home is the smell of the cat’s litter box

that no one bothers to clean

the smell of a rotting diaper

Home is the smell of my home

something not as tangible

the smell of unforgettable memories

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?