It's always the smell.

I enter the house and it never fails to overpower all the other senses.

Spring is musky. The old walls hold the moisture as the sun beats down. The mixture, of sun and water, creates a moldy essence. Sitting beneath the windows, I allow the sun to warm the top of my head, the paint chipped sill snagging my shirt. Lilly of the Valley rest in a vase on top of the bookcase. The tiny umbrella buds fill the room with their fresh clean smell. I read on the back porch step until my butt is numb. The afternoon sun is weakening, its rays just barely warming the side of my face as the impeding night brings the chill.

The sun warms and the nights lengthen to include hours past dinner. My father works the garden, incorporating the compost we created during the winter. Dirt, an earthy fresh scent that has hints of elements you'd rather not think about. Like the s*** the dog created next door. Asphalt lingers in the air as the sun boils the road. The cat across the street visits, a bird in its mouth. The cardinal, its delicate legs clinging to a twig, sings as the sun lowers in the sky. Its red crown adorns the top of the cardinal's head, naming him the king of the backyard. The yells of the kids across the street piece the air as the night takes over the day.

Losing its battle against the night, the sun retreats earlier as summer welcomes autumn. Trees drop their guard and allow the leaves to change colors. The vibrant colors fall and litter the roads and sidewalks with rainbow snow. I wear knit sweaters and read on the porch with the neighbor's cat curled around my feet. The sun's warmth fades and the night comes quickly.

Silence. A fire spitting and popping, the smoky aroma wafts its way up the stairs. The windowpanes hold delicate and intricate frost patterns. The cat stays indoors until the white blanket has covered the earth. There is nowhere to go. The chill seeps into the house through the cracks, bringing the crisp dry air.

The smell shift after an eternity of winter. The winds bring spring.

A season's entrance is subtle for most, but for me the smell is so potent it knocks me into each season with the reality that nature has changed.