Different candles on the table. One is a pine scent that reminds him of Tennessee when he was a kid running through the woods. Green needles in summer turned brown in fall. Tents set up. A fire burning of logs and kindling. Coyotes howling at midnight. His dad drinking from a silver flask. Initials carved into it. Sleeping with one eye open. 

Cotton candy candle. Smells of county fairs in Texas visiting his grandparents. Walking through crowds on route to the tilt-a-whirl, Ferris wheel, a small roller coaster with metal tracks, and food alley where a foot long corn dog awaits. Walking on his own. Grandma and Granddad never held his hand. They said his claws were too sticky. Sugar on his finger tips.

Lilacs. This scent leads him to sleep and dream of his mother in the garden picking flowers. Holding out her arms with a basket in hand. Telling him it will be OK. Everything will be just fine. A scarf around her head. Hiding truth. Damn lilacs.