Late last night, before we went to bed, the sky let out a disturbed grumble. It slowly rumbled with thunder as the breeze picked up slightly. Our bedroom is on the second floor of the house and I could see lightning crash in the distant eastern horizon as I peeked out of the window. The breeze was cool, comforting. It brought with it the smell of rain.

A few years back, we lived in a house in the barrio. Most of Tarlac is flat, with a few mountains bordering it on the west. The barrio we live in was an extraordinarily flat plain. Save for the ocassional house, trees and clumps of foliage that sprouted every few kilometers or so, there was nothing but ricefields. Five years in the barrio taught me the smell of rain. You could sense the scent of rain as the breeze carried it loftily along. The sweet, heavy scent of water vapor just had a way of filing your nostrils with a cool sensation that was so relaxing. Once you smell it, you had to stop what you were doing just to smell it some more. It was a mesmerizing scent. You just had to relish it some more everytime you breath it in.

Last night, as I lay down in bed trying to console our restless baby, I took in the smell of rain as it gently wafted into the room. For a few moments, I forgot the insufferable heat of this year's summer. For a few moments I went back to that house in the barrio. For a few relaxing moments I whispered, "there, there, everything will be alright," to my baby. Then, as quick as the peaceful breeze came, it was gone. It was taken away by the jealous wind when it realized I was giving in to its allure. It rumbled away into the west, headed for the mountains of Zambales. It didn't matter by that time. I had fallen asleep moments later.