Do you smell that? It’s petrichor - the scent of rain, the breaker of drought and song to seedlings. For weeks now, the atmosphere lay slouched and sitting low on the land. Grey afternoons with churning skies. They bruised black over the coast, sparked, rumbled and rolled away. No rain fell. I’ve always blamed my irrational fear of thunder on mum; she believes they’re unsettled spirits breaking from another realm to snatch away the weak-willed. Storms are spooky. The threat of downpour had toyed with the coast for some time – today was an exception. The rain came in bands, elastic in intensity like a wonderful bassy concert. The gutters of the fibro shack – their only job to choke down water – failed. Water breached the lip, shearing off, tearing and twisting.
With it dragged faint residues of smell, the burger joint down the road that never ceased throwing charred goodness to the wind – this single note I could tell among the terror of clashing cymbals. As water pooled, things in the yard started to curiously bob and float. A brightly coloured ball, a serviette deposited by the wind, Cocos palm flowers that transformed the entire puddle into a miniature resort spa. For summer storms timing is everything – always afternoons, home time, school runs, quick-stop shops. In fair weather, I’d trace the pavement on foot but today the car spoke of my secret laziness. I’ve always loved traveling by car, funneling the air into my nose from an open window. In weather like this, little droplets form on glass making miniature lenses reflecting the world – the only drawback is my master never puts the window down.