By Gordon Pires

Petrichor

The cotton of my shirt clings,
a heavy second skin
glued by the salt of a Goan afternoon.
In this heat, the mind is a dry well,
no plots,
no movement,
just the thick, white glare of the sun.
Then, the rupture.
The first drops don’t fall; they strike.
They dissolve the red dust of the roadside,
releasing a ghost
that smells of old stories and forgotten summers.
I am ten again,
standing on the kitchen tiles
near the scent of mustard seeds and coconut oil,
watching the yard turn into a lake.
It isn’t nostalgia;
it’s an ache for that first, damp breath
the earth finally exhaling.

Gordon Noel Pires is a writer and academic researcher who holds a Master's degree in English. He is the author of the novella The Loneliest Man and a contributor to several acclaimed literary anthologies. Professionally, he serves as a sub-editor at oHeraldo, drawing inspiration from the diverse social and institutional settings he navigates.

Banner image by Kyle Szegedi downloaded from Unsplash.com