No matter how long I’ve been away, no matter what I think about Bayshore, the smell of home can bring me to my knees. It’s not that she uses any special perfume or anything inside the house—no randomly spurting air fresheners. No, it’s the smell of our family, baked into the wood floors and the sunny corners and the familiar paths through the rooms. It’s the thirty-plus years of living in the house, mixed with children’s tears and adolescent rages and the inescapable grief and joy that accompanies any ounce of life.
