A few days ago, Phoenix had the luxury of rain. It isn’t quite monsoon season here, but lightening lit up the sky and water fell from it. When it first began, there was just enough water for everything to soak it up. The only evidence that it has rained was the smell—a wet, earthy one.
I remember it from childhood. I also remember how much I didn’t like it. But now that I’m older, there is something intoxicating about it. Maybe because it symbolizes nature being replenished or the air being washed of pollution. Whatever it is, I miss it. Because since the rain is gone, so is its scent.