the smell of the first 27 raindrops that land on the thin layer of dust on

the hood of a red 1972 Eldorado with a white vinyl roof after a hot

summer day parked on the side of the road by a thin stretch of beach

where you got out just to look at the waves for a bit to clear your head and

then the clouds darkened across the lake and you could feel that whoosh

of hot wind that comes when the storm is building up steam and you

wanted to stand there and watch the thunderhead roll in and see the

tiny ripples grow into whitecaps while you bathe in the wild electricity

as the sky turns purple and black and green beneath a yellow veil but

you don’t because you’re wearing your best silk dress the one with the

long red sleeves and the white sailor collar that you bought with your

very first paycheck back when you used to care so you run run run up the

narrow path through the brambles and the dirt worn to fine powder by

the footsteps of hundreds of bare feet of all sizes running the other way

toward the sand where they played and built castles for endless summer

afternoons and you get to the car just as the first drop hits the hood and

you can hear it and smell it and taste it in your mouth and you stop

struck dumb by the feeling and you think you could never feel anything

so pure and then the next and the next and the next raindrop hits and

you fall asleep in the joy and promise to never forget exactly this moment

or how you felt because you’re not sure that it will ever really get

better than this and that’s okay because this is pretty damn good so you

hold the thought and get in the car and start the engine and drive.