Smells like Home

Meet my Aunt Debbie:

She's not my Aunt by blood or biology, but she is my mother's childhood friend, and I spent much of my childhood in her home. Her daughter Mandy was only a year and 10 days younger than I, and--though we were completely different than each other--my best friend (of the BFF necklace variety) and the sister I never had.  I spent hours equaling years at Aunt Debbie's house--sleeping, eating, playing, being.

When I was 13 their family moved to Texas, and our paths took different shape.  This weekend, however, I traveled to NJ for Daniela's baptism and familial moments, and an extra benefit: 

 Aunt Debbie, at my mother's, visiting.

I sat next to her on the couch and listened to her life now, remembered with her our shared past, and realized with a surprised sort of wonder:

I still remember how her house smelled.

So, upon reflection, it seems to me that though the years have moved us out of the depth of relationship we once shared,

she will always remind me of what it means to be home.

My nose knows it, and so do I.