My house has a certain, distinct smell. It greets me at the door each time I come home: a faint floral smell of the candles my mother burns, mixed with the warm, musty smell of a house that has been standing much longer than anyone in my family. Last May, as I opened the front door coming home at the end of my first year at Columbia, the scent was no different. My house, save for a few pieces of shuffled-around furniture, was no different from when I had left in January.
