Our evening walk in the woods turned into a little thunderstorm adventure. After many dry days and static humid air, the thunder started roaring and gotten nearer and nearer. The rain began to drop gently, tapping on a leaf here and there, and then tap-tap-tap it went on, chasing us from the forest back home and even though we ran part of the way, we got soaked to the socks.
Thunderstorms are a rare occurrence on the West Coast, and it always reminds me of home, because even though the smells are different - there is always the excitement of the noise and the bolts of lightning. And there is still something familiar, even though the petrichor here was wrapped in luscious smells of salmon berries and blackberry leaves as we were meandering through the forest; and the wet earth mingled with the smell of white roses and the last indolic rhododendrons in the garden... And then the smell of wet pavement and concrete, wet hair and breathless warm skin of a child as we ran all the way home from the park. Strange as this may sounds, to me this smells like a prelude to a summer.