petrichor
/ˈpeˌtrīkôr/
scent of rain on dry earth
imagine; your back is flat on the earth. the heat of the air pushes down on you and your throat starts to ache. nothing grows around you. the sky is a haze of full grey clouds. you happen to be looking elsewhere when the first drops fall, and they surprise you. the combination of dry earth and new rain creates puddles almost immediately, drowning any stalk of grass that dares emerge. yet, they thrive. the rain falls in sheets now. it soaks your clothes and fills your ears, nose, mouth. the green shoots that you swear weren't there a few moments ago are almost six inches tall. you should be gasping for breath as your lungs fill with rainwater but you're breathing better than you ever have. everything is clear. the grass that broke the earth twists around your arms and legs. you could struggle, yell, but you don't. this is safety. with every inhale and exhale, you're more tangled in the weeds. the ground is mixing into mud, mixing into quicksand. your eyes leak tears, or is it rainwater? your senses are twisting. you see the rain but really you're feeling it and tasting it. the sound is literally deafening. it continues leaking out of your eyes, but now it's dripping from your mouth and ears. you take your last breath - you don't need to any more. a minute goes by. suddenly you blink. the air is hot again, the sky is filled with pregnant clouds. the earth is bone-dry and brown. you look up. a single fat raindrop lands on your chest, above your heart. you inhale, exhale, and never inhale again. the scent of rain on earth never leaves you, but you leave it.
YOU ARE READING
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