I would give a fortune to buy an incense that smells like my mother’s pink robe: something
          between jasmine and baby powder.

Her father would be easier to simulate; it would be buying some mint, but the smell turns
          different when he plucks it naughtily from the neighbor’s garden.

Her mother is pretty tough to explain; from her cheese pie to hair spray, I can’t spot what
          lingers the most.

I could bring my father here through his after shave, but only when he’s freshly shaved. When
          he is not, he smells like beard.

His father would be grandpa’s toothpaste; definitely strong mint; there must be something with
          mint and grandpas.

His mother smelled like lipstick or pasta frola or cherry liqueur or Greek coffee in the
          afternoon.

My sister smells like clean, and it’s so bad I can’t explain it better.