Writing from Chatham, Cape Cod, on the windowsill, and it smells like gouda. WHERE'S THE MOSS SMELL FROM OUTSIDE, EH?! Who says you have to go inside when it's thundering?! Nature, with the combination of parents and responsible obligations, is just unfair.
* * *
She stood around and watched the rain plink on the porch railing. She didn't suppose it was actually making a sound like that, but water going about PLINKing was a commonly used term. The little splashes on the railing looked like spiders. She supposed a crab analogy would be more appropriate.
She sat in the chair and got soaked to her skin. There was a coating of sand on the back of her calves and thighs where her shorts ended. Her sketching paper grew see-through and then it ripped in places. She watched water drip off her nose by crossing her eyes a little.
She wiggled her sock feet in the flooded water on the porch. The socks made her toes itch a title, but she didn't mind, really. She thought about taking a kayak into the bay while it was raining. She would watch the lobster boats and the lady with the blonde hair who jabbered on about her job, scavenging for clams in the sloppy sand.
Then there was a small burst of thunder. And lightning, the second bolt, soon after, looking like a set of chopsticks crossed over each other, and thunder again. She sighed and smelled it. Smelling was her favorite sense.
She knew it was time to go in. Her parents would be worried. No outside when it was stormy, by herself at least. She walked inside, and her dad turned on the light when she wanted it off, and it smelled like smoked gouda from today's 4:00 aperitif.
She watched the rain behind the shutters and the screen, but it wasn't the same.
She thought maybe the smell was the problem. It was the smell.
* * *
She stood around and watched the rain plink on the porch railing. She didn't suppose it was actually making a sound like that, but water going about PLINKing was a commonly used term. The little splashes on the railing looked like spiders. She supposed a crab analogy would be more appropriate.
She sat in the chair and got soaked to her skin. There was a coating of sand on the back of her calves and thighs where her shorts ended. Her sketching paper grew see-through and then it ripped in places. She watched water drip off her nose by crossing her eyes a little.
She wiggled her sock feet in the flooded water on the porch. The socks made her toes itch a title, but she didn't mind, really. She thought about taking a kayak into the bay while it was raining. She would watch the lobster boats and the lady with the blonde hair who jabbered on about her job, scavenging for clams in the sloppy sand.
Then there was a small burst of thunder. And lightning, the second bolt, soon after, looking like a set of chopsticks crossed over each other, and thunder again. She sighed and smelled it. Smelling was her favorite sense.
She knew it was time to go in. Her parents would be worried. No outside when it was stormy, by herself at least. She walked inside, and her dad turned on the light when she wanted it off, and it smelled like smoked gouda from today's 4:00 aperitif.
She watched the rain behind the shutters and the screen, but it wasn't the same.
She thought maybe the smell was the problem. It was the smell.
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