It was one of those sunny afternoon walks that warms your heart and lightens your mood. I was visiting with Matt, enjoying the sun on my cheeks, when a sweet smell wafted by on the breeze.
“Mmm. Home,” I said as we passed the community garden.
“What?” he asked turning toward me.
Thinking he hadn’t heard me, I repeated, “Home. It smells like home.”
He laughed at me and quipped, “Home smells like crap. That’s manure you’re smelling.”
“I know, but it’s aged manure. That’s different. It’s sweet.”
Home means something different to each of us, and my mother will probably cringe and faint through the floor if she reads that home smells like crap to me, but it isn’t the manure that I am reminded of. As that odor blew by on the breeze, I was remembering warm summer days riding my horse, sitting under a tree reading a book, a game of Hide-and-Seek in a cornfield, and happiness.
Other happy home “smellories” are popcorn balls and homemade penuche icing, fresh baked pepperoni rolls, and a wood fire in the fireplace. I still smell my grandma as I hug her for plaiting my hair, and the fragrance of freshly mown hay instantly sends me strolling down memory lane.
So, sorry, Mom, if it offends, but I like that home smells sweetly of crap.