As the sky cries gentle tears that drown the echo of
the present. With the constant poise of a mother's hum.
Not the pure and the untouched sight. Not the taste of
a thirst quenched. Not the whisper sound of a melody,
or the embrace of a long forgotten friend. It is
something else of that nature that calls me back, that pulls
my uprooted body miles away in place and time.
The smell only, the tingle from your throat to your nose.
The scent before rain. A smell of still as if we all
take a deep breath before we all can submerge our heads.
The smell after, as if we all exhaled together.
That fresh, clean token that draws the worms from their tunnels.
They bask on the pavement in a warm summer evening
allowing that smell to enter their small earth bodies.
A smell of cobblestones, sea cliffs, and the crashing surf.
That smell takes me home. To the home I have never known.
Although I have never graced her lush coast, it never
ceases to remind me of my grandmothers wool coat.
The smell of my family, of funerals and weddings.
Always there behind the laughter, the drops of whiskey,
and pain of the storm. Followed by at least one rainbow.
Of music, of dancing in a dusty Irish pub.
The sight of green pastures behind my eyelids stretching
all the way to the horizon. That is what I smell.