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