My mother always opened the window after a rainstorm. That breeze brought all kinds of joy into her kitchen and took away the weight of whatever work she had to get done. She couldn’t sing a single note, so let her knife kick up a rhythm chopping onions or the hot oil in her skillet hiss out its own tune while that rain smell just danced around the house. Somehow, it was always more than the gift of cool air on a hard day. It was, itself, the whole day. Now, I can’t help but walk the woods behind my house after a storm no matter how many ghosts it raises like steam off the hot ground.
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English at Southeastern Louisiana University where he edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in Pidgeonholes, The Shore, The Hopper, Terrain, and elsewhere. His latest collection is No Brother, This Storm. He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.