I have a confession to make—I've always been a collector of slightly insignificant moments. Not the grand milestones that people frame on walls or announce on social media. No, I hoard the small, inconsequential fragments that most people brush away like lint: the perfect arc of steam rising from morning coffee, the weight and smell of an old book in hand, the peculiar way shadows stretch at exactly 4:27 PM on a winter afternoon.
I've recently concluded that certain scents can pull you back in time. Not gradually, not gently, but all at once—like stepping through an unseen doorway into a place long forgotten.
However, Nothing in my collection compares to that earthy perfume that rises when rain meets the thirsty ground. The smell of dust after the first rain. Not just the clean, fresh scent of rain but something deeper, earthier and somehow melancholic. Petrichor as they call it now! but back then, it was just the smell of magic.
It happened again this morning. I was rushing to work on the usually busy Monday mornings when the sky cracked open without warning. The first few drops of rain fell. I stopped dead in my tracks upon realizing I was not with my umbrella, but then, it hit me. That scent — Earthy, raw, alive. The scent came like a promise, a greeting from the sky to the ground. Dust particles danced in the air before me. Caught in the strange pre-storm light, I let out an exhale from a breath I never knew I was holding and for a moment, I forgot I was late for work.
I ran to a shade by the road, I stretched my hand and watched as raindrops fell onto my palm. I close my eyes, and suddenly, I'm seven years old again. I'm suddenly transported back, back to a time when scraped knees and grass-stained clothes were badges of honour, not signs of carelessness. Back to my family's compound with my siblings and neighbours, when we could dance in the rain without a care for the aftereffects (cold and all). I'm barefoot, standing in the middle of my family home, the cracked dirt beneath my feet turning into soft mud. My mother is calling us to come inside, but her voice is distant, lost beneath the rhythm of rain drumming on the roof and the sound of pure heartfelt laughter. Our clothes are damp, and our hair sticking to our foreheads, but we don't care. We were alive in a way only children could understand.
The air is thick with the scent of wet earth and possibility. Somewhere nearby, rainwater drips from the leaves, collecting into tiny rivers that carve through the soil, and I follow them with my fingers, tracing their paths like tiny lifelines.
I let the memories wash over me. I could still feel it, the joy of eating with the other kids in an enclosed circle by the fire. The taste of roasted corn and the warmth from the fireplace. The feel of my grandmother's hands as she wiped off a few crumbs from the sides of my mouth. A wave of sadness washed over me, a familiar ache in my chest. A pool of tears in my eyes threatened to spill. Grandmother was gone now, her laughter silenced, the warmth of her hands forever lost. The house, once filled with warmth and light, now stood empty, a shell of its former self. Most of the kids, I haven't seen in a while, Some no longer in the same plane as me. The smell of rain which was once a source of pure joy, now carried a tinge of melancholy, a reminder of what I once had and what I had now lost.
But even in the sadness, there was a flicker of happiness. A warmth spread through my heart as I remembered the good times, the precious moments I had shared with them. The smell of rain wasn't just a reminder of loss; it was a reminder of love. A reminder of the simple joys, the uncomplicated happiness that defined my childhood.
I open my eyes. I am no longer seven (I was already late for work by the way). The compound is gone, replaced by the city skyline. The streets are wet. The rain is softer now, a mere whisper compared to the downpours of my childhood. But the scent remains.
It brings with it a longing—a soft ache in my chest that I can't quite name. Not sadness, not joy, but something in between. The world seemed cleaner, fresher, renewed. The air was still filled with that magical scent, but now, it carried a different message, a different yearning. A yearning for something already lived, for a moment that existed so purely that no matter how much time passes, it will never truly leave me. It was about appreciating the beauty of the moment, the simple pleasure of feeling the rain on my skin, the earthy fragrance filling my lungs.
I sit there for a long time, letting the rain fall and letting the memories settle. Because some things, no matter how much we grow, how far we go and how many years pass… never leave us.
Tonight, as I write this, the storm has passed. The streets outside are still wet, reflecting street lamps in fragmented light. The kids are playing in the sitting room. The world smells clean, and renewed. But I'm already waiting for the next dry spell, for dust to gather again on the surface of things. And when the rain returns—as it always does—I'll be there, eyes closed, breathing deeply, collecting another meaningless moment that somehow means everything.