Petrichor

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I have flashes of memory most times. Sometimes, they happen when I least expect it and those ones often never go away. For example, I had a flash of me looking up to a younger version of my mom from a cot. I can vaguely make out the toys dangling from above and a shadow beside her, whom I presume would be my dad.

I do not know how to express these things when I see them and for fear of appearing crazy, I rarely talk about them. But then there are flash of memories that occur because that could well be my brain or soul, telling me to accept the past and move on. I shut down these images as soon as they come because I hate the way they make me feel; out of control.

What I don't know to do, is how to deal with the images when they awake thanks to petrichor. There is always a clash of interest because it is my favorite scent and yet, the worst. A love-hate relationship because it brings back memories and takes me on a journey I am never prepared for.

Petrichor is the scent after rain. A pleasant smell that permeates my senses and transports me to other worlds. Worlds that majorly consist of my past, present and future. I love it because of the freedom it brings, the darkness and the long-standing stillness that follows. I hate it because of the voices it carries. Incantations and messy lullabies of a broken past.

I was asleep. Probably five or six at that period when I was shaken awake by my mother during the pouring rain. I still can't remember much details surrounding me getting dressed in a thick jacket by my mother, but I did hear the exchange of loud voices in the living room. Voices I recognized saying words that sent chills to my bones.

"I want her out of here! Let them get out of my house."

That was my uncle.

"Please! Let us wait till the morning. This is midnight and you know how dangerous it is outside on these streets. She can't take that little girl out by this time."

That was aunt Liz.

"I don't care," his voice got closer till he appeared in the door way and said to my mother who quietly packed, "leave and never come back. Rubbish!"

For a child who couldn't know what to make of the situation, I was quiet but I was scared. The fear of the dark (outside) lingering from behind, their claws gripping my throat so much I couldn't speak. My mother was collected, quickly packing up, not begging. I guess that is where I got my trait of pride.

The whole house was awake by the time my mother dragged me along with our belongings out of the room but my cousins were absent. I guess the noise didn't wake them. Aunt Zi was sobbing and pleading with my mother's aunt to reconsider and ask uncle to take it back. She didn't. I had looked at her imploringly. I couldn't talk because it felt like betrayal to my mother's pride, but I hoped she'd have mercy. There was none.

Aunt NG, my least most liked in that house was the one who escorted us to the gate, under the pouring rain. The drops felt like light slaps on my exposed skin, rigid and cold. My spine straightened as we approached the gate, trepidation for the darkness that lied on the other side completely taking over my nervous system and I began to shake uncontrollably. Mom thought it was cold and placed a blanket on me.

The gate was rolled and we were ushered out. Aunt NG never liked my mom, the smug look on her face said as much. But when faced with my reality, the dark street, my fear heightened and I reacted on impulse. I lunged and tried to stop her from closing the gate,

"Please..."

I remember saying please and I remember screaming right after because the gate was banged on my fingers. Mom called out, crying for her to open the gate because of my jammed fingers. She sure took her time.

With a swollen hand and wounded pride, I sat on the stair case, keeping my tears at bay. My face was hot but I refused to let the tears fall. Mom joined me and we sat outside, nowhere to go. As the time passed, I began to feel numb.

A few minutes later, the gate opened up again and just as hope rose to the surface, it was squashed when Aunt Zi walked out with her own bag.

"What happened?" My mother asked

"I can't stay in that house. I'm following you."

"But I have nowhere. See my child! And you're pregnant. Do not be reckless."

"But you're my only support in that house. I'd rather roam the streets with you than stay here alone. I'm as good as dead if I stay here."

She joined us and we sat outside till day break. The rain had stopped but the cold was unbearable. The gate opened again for my uncle who drove out and did not fail to tell us to vacate his premises entirely before he got back. I couldn't look at my cousins as they watched from the back seat. I just...couldn't.

The sun had risen, I was sneezing and Aunt Zi was coughing. The weather was chill and despite last night's events, the birds still chirped and the aroma that filled the air was one I always loved. Petrichor...

The miracle happened when a woman who was driving past saw us. She came down to inquire what happened. My mom relayed the best she could and I watched her fight off the tears. The woman asked us to come with her. I never knew until the woman drove us to her house that she and my mom knew each other. She vacated her garage and said we could use it for as long as we wanted. And that was how life away from the only family we knew started. Sadly, Aunt Zi died during child birth but she is forever remembered.

This story is why I love and hate the scent after rain. The nostalgia it comes with is a healing balm but at the same time, it cuts deeper than any knife.

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