When you miss the state where you grew,

There is a candle just for you.

 

In the early Washington summer,

You smell spring rain,

Wet pine needles,

Fresh blackberries for your ice cream shakes,

And a blanket of wild flowers.

 

As I sit, middle aged, in the desert,

Dreaming of mountain rain,

A candle is on its way:

 

It promises the smell of my mother’s Earl Grey Tea,

Cedar and patchouli.

The vanilla and maple blood of trees,

Amber and rhododendron fighting for a shaft of brief sunshine through the trees.

 

The citrus of bergamot trees and the musk of the wild northwest.

 

The candle best serves my house late at night,

When a two year old might lose her way to the potty,

Or my teenage pit bull may need a sip of water.

 

It will light up my kitchen table with memories of my childhood,

While building more for my daughters.

 

When I open the front door,

Sandalwood from desert rainfall.

 

When I hold them close,

My vanilla body spray,

and coconut shampoo.

 

Each strand of scent, a wall to my home.

A construction of life, light and mom,

Never to be forgotten.

 

Prompt 20, Hour 20