Home is where my mother is

When I was a little girl, my mom would carry me down the steps in the morning. I would always nuzzle my head into the side of her neck and smell her perfume. It smelled wonderful to me. That was the way a mother was supposed to smell.
One day, my mom was carrying me down those steps and she didn't smell the same. I looked at her and said, "You don't smell like a momma." My mom's eyes got wide and she told me that she had switched perfumes. I couldn't bring myself to understand why she had. I loved her scent. To me, there is just something about the way a mother smells. When I used to go to camp during the summer, I would spray her perfume all over my pillow and dab a little bit on my Fuffy. Those few squirts of her perfume lasted me the whole week. I didn't get home-sick, not once. I realized if I ever missed my mom, I could smell my pillow and she would be right there with me.
I've always wanted to bottle my mother's scent. I would keep it with me in-case I find myself needing a touch a home, because to me, home is where my mother is.