When I was young, the groves were thick,
and spring would always do the trick.
The breeze would carry something sweet,
orange blossoms on the street.
The scent would linger in the air,
as something gentle settled there.
It wrapped the town in something right.
It smelled like home. It felt like light.
But then I left. I chased the grind.
No citrus trees. No peace of mind.
Just concrete walls and traffic sounds,
no blossoms blooming on these grounds.
I’d visit home from time to time,
but something faded every climb.
The groves grew fewer every year.
The scent I loved would disappear.
Then just last week, I caught a trace,
a breeze that brushed across my face.
It smelled like back when I was small,
but faint, like it was barely there at all.
Like music drifting from a car
that fades away before it’s far.
It made me stop. I breathed in slow.
It stirred a place I used to know.
It made me think about this town,
the roots that held me to the ground.
And I don’t know if that’s a loss
or just the way that growing costs.
My parents still are holding tight,
but when they’re gone, that’s it, alright.
No reason left to pass back through,
no tie to land I once outgrew.
So if I catch that scent again,
I’ll let it linger. Breathe it in.
Because that breeze might be the last
to call me back to where I passed.