Around my mother's house there is a lot of verbena. It's the first thing you smell when you roll in and step out of a vehicle, and open the gate. The smell is so pure and so wonderful and it rises up to meet you when you ring the doorbell to announce your presence, when you open the gate and move to open the white front door.
Our house is by no means beautiful. It's a lot of good intentions ruined by a lot of bad architecture, and a phobia of painting the walls anything but white and the roof anything but blue. But I'll always love coming home.
When I turn right and open the first door, my mom is inside, and she's always waiting for me with a hug and a smile, and no matter what happened during the week, no matter how tired I am or no matter how much I have left to do, she's always happy to see me, and I'm always happy to see her.
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