Heaven will smell like hot apples cooking on a fall day. This is the scent of our favorite season, mingled with smells of shepherd’s pie and pumpkin spice anything. Oh, and the creaking sound of the furnace as it remembers how to heat the house again. The light is dim in the house each morning, the sun rising later and later while we wait for Swiss Miss and cereal before school. We stand on the vent in the kitchen, the heat billowing our robes and warming our slippers.

This is my childhood. This is the month of my birth. This is how I remember life at home.

We try to replicate it now, apples in a pot on the stove, their perfume rising to bless our memories.

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