Brownie Mix

Today was one of those days that actually felt like Fall. When I come outside with my coffee, the first thing I do is take a deep-nostrilled breath in, and see if the smell registers. Usually, it reminds me of one of the first few days of a new school year back when I was in high school. It was the smell of grass and anxiety, dirt and nervousness. What will the day bring? That was today's scent. This evening, it has sprinkled off and on, not nearly enough to make a dent in the drought, but enough to get your hopes up that your car will get rinsed off. As I stepped out of the car, I could smell the warm pavement mixed with the clay of our topography. I could smell the singe of the oil on the road being gently kneaded out of the concrete.

What I smelled more than any of that was my childhood.

Walking barefoot in the dirt that resembled brownie mix on a beaten path around our home. The smell of wet bark and slick blades of grass.

 I stopped to listen.

Each drop of percussion sounded like home. I closed my eyes and imagined each tiny droplet settling into the fine dirt, not soaking in, just sitting around in a bubble. I imagine walking around that trail with wet feet and the dirt slowly getting caked in between my toes, making muddy hand prints on the side of our chalky-white house, and climbing the Everest of trees in our front yard.

Then the real rain came.

 Just like that, the quick thought of home was gone, and today came in curtains of precipitation. On days like today, I imagine the sky is crying for me in empathy for things long forgotten and memories that can't be remade or remembered again.