The Smell of Rain

The queues for left-side tanks were full, forcing me to an opposite pump where I stood straining against the hose, angling the nozzle downward to keep the fuel flowing. "Four dollar gas! You voted for this!" The shout had the pitch and tone of an unstable man. "Still better than the other people in charge." His voice won the argument, wrong as he was.  I know this guy, he works at the Costco gas station. In another life he could have been a cop. Just last month he noticed that my car wouldn't start and pointed to a place I could push it out of the way. "We're gonna get him out of office!" The shriek went on... ​I found myself hoping for the same, though perhaps for different reasons. It isn't just about the price per gallon or the latest political scandals; it’s a desire to move past this era entirely. I’m ready for a time when a person’s political leanings don't make me second-guess their character. I liked that guy.

I was discouraged by the lack of a grand moment of freedom at the end of my decade in prison. People imagine it as a dramatic shift— you live in a cell day after day, then one day, the door swings open, and life returns in glorious style. But that’s not how it works. A prison sentence has its own phases. You move from higher security to lower security, each step requiring its own adjustment. Then, if you're released to a halfway house or another form of monitoring, you're out, but not really free. Even from the time of my sentencing, I knew I’d have years of special parole waiting for me on the other side, an automatic way to ruin the best part of a long bid: the day I got out. Looking back, though, I see it differently. I can track my growth through each stage and appreciate the small freedoms I gained along the way. I never had a single moment of freedom, I had freedom promotions. And while that realization surprises me, maybe it shouldn’t. After all, you get a lot stronger ...

Playing casual card games like Crazy Eights has a way of loosening people up, breaking down walls that conversation alone might struggle to breach. It was over cards that I really got to know my Aunt Michele. Before, I knew her as the relative who always demanded a hug, but over this game she was a storyteller, a person with depth, humor, and a way of making life feel just a little more unpredictable. My favorite story of hers was about my cousins, Mike and Matt, when they were young. One night, they were supposed to be asleep, but instead, they were playing games in their bedroom, laughing and whispering past bedtime. My aunt heard them, crept down the hallway, and threw open the door. The boys froze, wide-eyed, caught in the act—two deer in headlights, waiting for whatever punishment was coming. But instead of scolding them, she grinned and said, “Have some candy!” Then, she tossed handfuls of treats their way before walking back to bed. I loved that story. It was funny, sure, but it...

Pancakes have always been a simple yet magical meal to me, a symbol of warmth and comfort that stretches back as far as my memory goes. When I was a little kid living at my grandparents' house with my younger brother, pancakes were more than breakfast—they were an event. The anticipation would start the moment we smelled the griddle heating up, filling the kitchen with the sweet aroma of sugar and flour. My brother and I would sit at the table, perched on the edges of our chairs, practically vibrating with excitement. When our grandmother finally placed the plates in front of us, they were perfect—golden pancakes draped in syrup, with that one glossy spot of melted butter pooling in the center. That buttery spot was sacred, the best part, and I always ate it first. My brother did too, like it was an unspoken rule between us. I can still hear my grandfather chuckling from his seat behind us. "Look at that, Gerri," he said, his voice full of amusement. "The...

Written from prison during the Covid era "Is anyone there?" A young man shouted in complete darkness. Nobody responded. "I have the most amazing story," he continued. "So if anyone can hear me, just let me talk." He paused. There was a beautiful sensation coursing through every molecule of his being. It was the happiest and most confident he ever felt, despite being in complete darkness and silence. Truthfully, he did not care if anyone actually could hear him. There is power in telling a story, and this moment could not be wasted. "I will be gone soon, I can feel it," the storyteller resumed with a breath. "I don't know how, but I know as sure as I'm speaking these words that I'm on my way to something better." He took one more pause to enjoy the perfect silence. "While it's still fresh in my mind, I'll start with the first thing I remember." An overwhelming sense of confusion and shock suddenly woke me up...

I have often thought about this part in Aladdin as an allegory, especially in the troublesome years of my life. To retrieve the magic lamp, Aladdin must make his way through the Cave of Wonders. Although the cave is loaded with gold, gems, and priceless treasure, he is told to "touch nothing but the lamp." Life can be a lot like the Cave of Wonders. The ingredients to a good life are well known. Do your best, treat others justly, and stay grateful. That is the magic lamp in reality, and there's a clear path leading up to it. Also, like the cave, life has all these little temptations that take us off the simple path to goodness. Aladdin has a small monkey companion named Abu. I think of Abu as a representation of human weakness, a trait we all have. While Aladdin makes his way to the lamp as instructed, Abu is the one who succumbs to greed and grabs a giant ruby. Instantly, the entire cave begins to melt and collapse upon itself. This much of the story already tells us a l...