The smell of home

     The smell of coffee stirred movement from upstairs. That distinct smell that only happens when you go home. Soon the sizzling of bacon starts your stomach churning as you rise out of the bed you slept in growing up. Pots and pans rattle as if meant to be an alarm clock and you smile at the thought. Looking around your old room, you look at the pictures of your past, and a boy’s life spelled out with trophies, ribbons, and a very old catchers mitt that belonged to your grandfather. You rub your hand along the top of your old desk where many model cars were put together, and years of homework was labored over. There was a carved heart with the initials of your first girlfriend, and yours that you remember doing at the age of fourteen.

     The smell of cinnamon buns brings you back to reality as you descend the steps you fell down too many times to remember. Stopping at the foot of those stairs, you look into the kitchen where your mom is putting the finishing touches on a breakfast fit for a king. She doesn't move as quickly as she once did, but she gets things done and is so very happy to do so. She smiles as you enter the kitchen, telling you to sit as she begins to pile food on your plate, leaving no room for a single thing more. After pouring both of you a cup of coffee, she sits and watches you eat, asking every few minutes if she can get you anything else?

     You know your visits are nearing an end and the house you called home for so long will soon be filled with the voices of a new family beginning their lives in their first home. Mom will be moving into a place where people her age share memories and show pictures of a full life with the ones they loved the most. She decided to move there even though I begged her to come home with me. She smiled and told me no. She wanted to rest now, giving away her pots and pans and keeping only her most treasured possessions, all of which were tucked away neatly into a small steamer trunk that sat by the front door.

     The day arrived that I would drive her to the place she would call home. Before leaving, she took a walk around her yard, stopping to smell the flowers and relive the hundreds of memories that filled her heart. I joined her after a while, asking her once again to come home with me, and she said no. The moving van pulled up, followed by a minivan. The new owners of her house had arrived. She greeted them and told the children there was a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter. Sending them running into their new life. She gave the young couple the keys and wished them nothing but happiness. Then looking one more time at her home, she got into my car and wiped away a tear.

     I visit her often and wonder if she’s happy? She says she is as she shows me art projects she’s working on and a sweater she’s knitting for her neighbor who is always complaining of being cold. We walk the grounds where she stops and smells the flowers holding my arm for balance. It’s about dinner time, and the smell from the kitchen makes her shake her head and mumble something I couldn't quite make out, but I imagine she was saying something about the lack of ingredients. She said she was tired, so we went back to her room where the steamer trunk was open, her memories waiting for her and my heart broke a little more.

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