Petrichor, and a growing vocabulary of rain


There are places that are so small that they can only be touched by water. It seems only rain can seep into these spaces, especially those I thought no longer existed inside me. When I was younger, I had this line tattooed on the side of my neck to remind me of how rain worked; that there must be a place that I can keep dry no matter how the rain would try. 

There must be a way to conjure phantom cures for phantom aches, and I was given this:

the scent of rain immobilizing time

and I am flung into all the distant places where I remember rain-- the thud of a car door in the departure area of an airport, the smell of gas in my hair as we swam through flooded streets, our old house slowly disappearing under all that water, the stench of the flood on our fingers as we picked up photographs, washed white and yellow, birthdays and holidays completely destroyed.

When I listen closely to static, it begins to sound like loud but muffled rain.

In that room that not even the smallest of hands can get a hold of, I pick up a pen and gaze at my own small hand try to recreate the places for rain to come through again. Gaze at my own words trace memories, both real and made-up. Gaze at water taking the shape of new containers:

rain as love story,
rain as surf lesson,
rain as redemption,
and history exam or fortune-teller,
rain as sorry,
rain as never,
ever forgetting how to write.

Not when there are more years that I've missed my parents' birthdays than the fingers on my hand. Not when there is a boy sleeping peacefully beside me, oblivious of the thunder. And not when, after all that dizzying sun, hardened hearts now soften, hot heads begin to cool.