Petrichor

Photo by Lisha Riabinina on Unsplash

Y’all. I love a rainstorm. And I love new words. I recently learned this word: petrichor. It means: “a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.” It reminded me of the year I lived in Southern California, where it didn’t rain a drop the entire year and I could smell Griffith Park burning all the way in Pasadena. And the utter relief of moving back to Chicago.

I lived in California for a year or so—

some time ago—

I can still feel the surge that lifted my heart

when I stepped outside on February 15—

shorts and a t-shirt, comfortably warm.

Some months into the California year,

my body started feeling strange —

As if it walked a few steps ahead of me

or circled around behind and whispered in my ear:

“It is dry. It is dry

Everything you see will die.”

365 days without rain

crumbled me apart into uneven pieces.

I choked on the smell of the fruit trees

layered over the smell of the parched desert dirt.

I arrived back in the Midwest in stages —

first my skin with the chill of an October morning,

then my sight with the fading light of autumn sunsets.

And finally, after days of thunderstorms,

the smell of water drenched earth — the petrichor—

infused and awakened,

held the pieces together while I waited to set,

dripping and exhausted.