There’s a word
for the scent the earth gives
after it’s been broken open
by rain.
Petrichor.

The sound alone
feels like a secret slipping into my palms—
something beautiful
that arrives after a storm
and doesn’t ask why you’re still here,
just that you are.

Scientists say
it’s the oil of plants,
the breath of bacteria,
the whisper of a world remembering how to be soft again.
But I think it’s the earth’s way
of saying “I forgive you.”

I smelled it the other day
and thought of the way you left.
How I stayed.
How healing doesn’t always shout—it sometimes smells
like damp pavement and second chances.

There are people
who will enter your life
like summer rain.
Uninvited.
Brief.
But necessary.

And there are moments
when grief doesn’t knock,
just opens a window
and lets the smell of what could’ve been
crawl in through the screen.

But still,
I breathe it in.
Because petrichor reminds me
that even the most stubborn ground
can hold beauty
after it’s been cracked open.