The best smell in the world is the petrichor of impending rain. When the downpour is just about to start--has already started elsewhere--the feeling is so certain. There is no doubt that when it smells like rain, it will rain. But when will it rain? When does the rain actually start? Will it be a deluge? A sprinkle? Will we notice the rain? The olfactory system gives us an early warning, too vague to really serve us. The city of B ███ is full of such warnings. From a young age, the children of the town grow up learning to look, listen, feel for approaching trains. “You know a blind woman was hit by a train just last year?” Smell never comes into it. Used to be, the smell of coal lingered for minutes after a train roared through town. Now the only coal in B ███ is stuck in the walls, only showing itself in the tinderbox house fires and occurrence of black lung. The town died with the railroad, and like the railroad it limps forward. It ferries people into the city to the southeast. B
A mix of essays and more personal posts. I also make free audio-books at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC-i3YKaKSgVdJp-e7CY5scQ