“Can I blow out the candle?” I hate scented candles, especially ones labeled things like Ocean, like a company could ever mass produce the smell of the ocean.

“No, I like it,” my mom says, her back against the red armchair, with a new book propped between her knees and stomach. “I finally got to light it when you were gone.” Over the weekend I went skiing with some friends from my old school. I’m surprised I can still smell anything at all.

I blow it out anyway. It’s supposed to smell like sunflowers, but it smells like some generic, saccharine and cheap, flowery perfume. I want to smell home. The thing about smelling home is that you can only smell it when you’ve been gone. And you can’t even describe it to anyone, because when they think of home, they’ll immediately think of some different smell.

“I told you not to blow it out,” my mom says. I thought I had been quieter. Tonight though, home smells like clean sheets, warm air, and hot cinnamon buns stuck to the pan.