I’ve only been living where I live for less than a year. I’m still learning about the contours, the textures, the seasonal changes. I’m still trying to find a place for the scissors to live.
When I left the taxi and stepped inside, the house didn’t smell particularly special. The scent in there was of cleaning products mainly, courtesy of my ever-helpful other half.
But when I stepped outside the breeze carried the smell of the earth and the trees; a milder version of that heady scent of rain which precedes a summer storm. It was a familiar scent that, until then, I hadn’t realised was familiar.
It smelt like home.