“It’s the closest thing we poor creatures have to magic, my dear – the ability to be transported through time by a waft of scent that unlocks a memory.” – Jason Fry

On a recent warm Spring Friday night, my kids and I walked up to a local burger joint. It’s six city blocks away and the walk held its own sense of nourishment as we looked at flowers, stopped to talk with neighbors, and chatted about some of our favorite memories that this route holds. Like the time when Miss O was three-years-old and got a Wonder Woman shaped balloon made for her by a balloon animal vendor at the farmer’s market. Then as we walked home, she rubbed it along a picket fence, popped one of Wonder Woman’s legs, and burst into tears for the rest of the way home.

The weather was in the high-60’s and we scored an outside table under the awning at the local burger place. As we sat there waiting for our food and watching the other people in line, ten-year-old Miss O noticed big splotches of rain dotting the pavement. She said, “I think it’s raining.” A surprise because it wasn’t in the forecast.

And then I was hit with the smell of rain, noticeable even amidst the odor of the bacon and burgers emanating from the restaurant. I replied, “Oh yes, I can smell it.”

Miss O questioned, “Rain doesn’t have a smell. What does it smell like?”

Her query launch a flood (pun intended) of sense memories. The sound of the wooden typhoon boards being slotted into place when we lived in the Philippines when I was a child. The electricity in the air when the weather shifts on a mountain. And from Eastern Washington where I went to high school, the smell of a crop field absorbing the first drops of rain.

As I contemplated the words to describe what rain smells like, she exclaimed, “I smell it!” And I smiled knowing that she was starting her own memory file named The Smell of Rain. The first entry is a warm Spring Friday night in the neighborhood she grew up in.

(featured photo is from Pexels)

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