Home has a scent.
A fragrance that transcends definition,
weaving a cloak of warmth and familiarity.
The air curls around you like a soft blanket the moment you enter,
pillowcases carry memory,
sniffed again and again
because you’ve been homesick.
It is not the scent of your grandparents.
That smelled of wrinkled laughter and naphthalene,
as if someone had tried to preserve time itself.
Nor the scent of your parents.
Somewhat damp and cold now,
as if it knows the rust in the ribs.
Generations of false and frail lineages can be inherited.
But the scent of home? That is never inherited.
Dead dreams and breathing hopes
smell differently
for fathers and sons,
for mothers and daughters.
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