Spring 2022

Petrichor

By: Cara Bond

When the sun sets, it’s going to rain;

Or so she tells me.

She says she can smell

When the rain is about to come. 

She said so this morning

Just before I left for work;

I made it about halfway down the driveway

Before my jacket was soaked through.

When I arrive back home

There’s a dry hoodie on the back

Of the living room chair,

Waiting just for me.

I don’t ask her about it;

I don’t have to.

Not when she takes one look at me

Wrapped up tight in her navy blue hoodie

And her eyes twinkle like raindrops,

And she smiles like that.

She hands me a mug

Of steaming orange tea.

I’ve never liked oranges much,

But I can’t find it in myself to refuse.

It’s bitter,

Just like I thought.

I drink the whole thing,

Just in case she might smile at me again.

She crocheted me a blanket last week,

Big enough to cover our whole bed.

It’s warm, sure,

But not as much as her embrace.

It’s green, like the rustling leaves

Of the damp trees outside.

I’ve never liked the color much,

But I think I can learn how.

After dinner, she plays the violin;

Which, as you can probably guess,

I never liked much either

Until I met her.

I never knew that just one person

Could breathe so much life,

So much joy,

Into every single note.

She’s offered to teach me to play,

Nudging my shoulder and joking

That her old violin from elementary school

Would probably be just the right size.

I want to learn,

But I refuse every time. 

Not because I don’t think I can,

But because she smiles when she plays,

And for the life of me

I don’t think I could bear to look away.