Bare feet on grey stone.
The ever growing puddles seep between my toes as I step across the driveway.
That smell, the smell of rain. Years later a friend would hypothesize that the smell comes from dirt getting wet, or something like that. But right now, the thought doesn't even cross my mind.
I am fourteen-years-old.
I am fourteen-years-old.
I feel the drops on my arms, my face. One by one.
Then I dash back inside.
(Two days later I develop a cold that will linger for two more weeks.
But I still think it was worth it.)
But I still think it was worth it.)
What a beautiful memory. What clean writing, it leaves such a strong impression with it's simplicity.
ReplyDeleteSo clear and precise. I can picture you doing just this.
ReplyDeleteI am glad you talked about the smell of rain--a phenomenon that everyone thinks about, and so makes it relatable. And it fills out your scene--to have multiple senses being utilized. Well done.
ReplyDelete