I'm in San Angelo this beautiful Labor Day weekend. We're staying with my dad. Everything I love about being home can be easily associated with my sense of smell:
Walking into the house, a soft mixture of the floors having just been moored with pine sol combines with whatever Dad grilled last night. In the morning, the weekend arrives with the luxurious scent of bacon cooking on the outdoor grill, wafting in the patio door. For a real flash back, I walk into mom and dad's bathroom, open her closet door and inhale deeply. Her perfume still lingers in the clothes still hanging there.
Ah...smells of home: good for relaxing the mind, reminding the body to slow down, and assuring the heart that things can (and will) get better.
Walking into the house, a soft mixture of the floors having just been moored with pine sol combines with whatever Dad grilled last night. In the morning, the weekend arrives with the luxurious scent of bacon cooking on the outdoor grill, wafting in the patio door. For a real flash back, I walk into mom and dad's bathroom, open her closet door and inhale deeply. Her perfume still lingers in the clothes still hanging there.
Ah...smells of home: good for relaxing the mind, reminding the body to slow down, and assuring the heart that things can (and will) get better.
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