His clothes were neat folded in his drawers, and they smelled good, like dryer cloths; there was dribble of spaghetti sauce down the front of the top shirt in his dirty clothes pile. Those were sure signs he had been home over the weekend. I pressed my face into his folded trousers and inhaled. The smell made me miss my own home. Happily, I moved back to his dirty clothes. The shirt with the sauce down the front. I took it to me, thinking his ma should have washed it, too, before he came back. I held it to my face, searching for the fragrance of home cooking. There it was... ah. But behind it was another scent... the spaghetti smell covered it, but it was still there. Stronger on the underside of the sleeves and around the back. I recognized it. It was unique. Only one person could smell like that.