My family all have distinct smells—living in a house of boys, the home smells of trouble.
My step-father, fresh and pristine, stands a pediatrician before his next appointment. Pure and pronounced speaks for his professionalism, but a genuine smile speaks for his character.
My three brothers, easily distinguishable, still speak of home and stark memories. twenty one years old, wisdom masked with naive adolescent, a clone like my fathers. twenty years old, brawny scent encased in his room like a hippie, with a musk masking fresh sheets. fourteen years old, like experiments with Axe and deodorant, as his boyish charm conceals his youth.
As the sister, I am unlike the rest, with incense and candles dancing on the ceiling, and coconut kissing my hair.
My dogs smell of grass, cuddling and games—running to greet me hello. Like puppies, smiles drip off their tongues. 
As a family we are all running in between the silver lining of familiar and fresh.
But my mom—she holds the most poetic warmth of them all. Warmth like a softening hug. She smells like the flowers fluttering from wrist to the nook of her neck. A nostalgic car ride, on your way home after a long vacation, beckoning your welcome.  Like love wrapping around your nose and seeping into a soft smile, beckoning you into her arms. Perfume lingering, dancing, fluttering as you do into her arms comes warmth like a softening hug. Living in a home full of hectic bustling, it smells of trouble.  
As a family we are all running in between the silver lining of familiar and fresh.