Petrichor

…the soft ground giving way beneath my sandaled feet, the cool lines of corn leaves slick beneath my hands, the metallic but earthy smell of irrigation pipes giving life to the fields, the rustle of wind through the corn and wheat and over the distant coyote howls…

On I-70 halfway from Kansas City to St. Louis, the corn fields aren't far from harvest. Back home in southwest Kansas, it's still too early. Wheat harvest is likely in full swing, a time to avoid certain back roads heavily used by farm implements and the sharp objects that fall off of them. A time to hit Rinky Dink drive thru for ice cream after the sunset. At times, storms that broke up the harvest days with fiery displays of lightning, raging and even tornadic winds – grab the camera, take some pictures, hit the basement.

The storms often push harvest back into July, when the farmers race to cut wheat on July 4 before the county firework display. The arid winds always pose a risk of igniting an entire field near the show.

But it's been years since I've driven the dirt road to my parents’ home. Passing these fields is like the virga rains that never reach the caked ground: you can see it, you can even smell it, but you can't feel it. Like a petrichor of the soul.

I'm desperately homesick. From my tent in the woods where I currently live in the rolling hills over the Missouri River, the amber waves of grain in Kansas seem impossibly distant. And even if I had a car and the resources to get there, where would I go? My parents no longer live there, and even if they did, I'm not sure I would be welcome anyhow.

I'm homesick for fields and skies, for childhood memories and people, but mostly, I'm homesick for roots and peace. A place I can trust to be the same when I have changed so much.

I don't know if I'm chasing memories that aren't coming back or an unseen future, but it's very much the virga trying to reach the ground, the sweet petrichor after my storms.