It was never really about you. It was always about the house wasn’t it? The smell that lingered in my brain, like lavender, and something else perhaps. I could never figure out what the something else was, and I always thought that’s what made you unique. They say that home is not a place but a person, and I guess you always smelled like home to me. But you don’t live there anymore, they changed the locks, and the flowers are dead, but it was never really about you. How do you say goodbye to an idea of something? A moment in time? It’s the orange peel, I discovered later that’s what makes the smell so special. Not something otherworldly or magic, just orange peel. How very domestic. Which was probably the point wasn’t it? It was the last thing holding the memory of you in my head, the last piece of your puzzle. Home, it’s not something you could just bottle, you told me once, but it’s not really about you. Now I’m off to make another home, and it smells like lavender, and something else. Orange peel. Because it was never really about you was it?