The Scent of Ozone and Petrichor

Her father has planted tomatoes and marigolds together like he does every year. She is not allowed to pick their flame-colored blossoms. Instead, she plucks a handful of ripe, red fruit, settling in the grass to watch the nectar-tipsy bees. There are balls of orange pollen on their hairy black legs, and they add a gentle vibration to the air as they feast on the frizzy blooms.

The bees, the flowers, the tomatoes, and the girl-child thrive together in full, hot sunshine. She imagines bright threads, like a web of golden light, connecting her fingertips to the beehive, the roots of the plants, the creatures that creep through the soil and the thunderstorm clouds gathering over the mountain. Far above, there is a crack of thunder.

The monsoon.

She lifts her nose to the scent of ozone and petrichor.