I love the smell of home.
The smell that assails my senses when I step into the room I grew up in
My memories traversing a different space and time, automatically
When this was life...
My fingers move, of their own accord.
Opening this, adjusting that, trying to place things just as I liked them a decade back.
And all the while, I breathe in a past.
It’s a whiff of childhood, and of adolescent pangs
Of the sense of liberation once exams were done and dusted
And the warm, lazy, endless summer days began
There is an aroma that could only mean mom
Her clothes, her cooking, her hugs
Mixed with the sharp, burnt, heady smoke from dad's late night cigarette
It’s the scent of first love, of late night phone calls
Of the feeling that anything, absolutely anything is possible
The scent of dreams yet to be realized, and thus, yet to be broken
It’s the sense of growing up, leaving the comfortable behind
Forcing yourself to spread your wings, even if you are scared of heights
The refusal to acknowledge the overwhelming homesickness
It’s not a sensory overload, oh no.
It’s more subtle, creeping in and catching me unaware during those flying visits home
And that’s how it departs too. Slowly, almost unnoticed, almost too soon.
Till suddenly, I feel the familiar ache of something missing
And I know it’s time to move on.
