The Widening Spell of the Rain

Driving back from the supermarket yesterday, my uncle turns to me when we crest the ridge of Sultantepe. "You feel how the air gets lighter as soon as we cross," he asks. Today, the rain follows us over that ridge; perhaps sweeping north, just from the Sea of Marmara, passing over the Princes' Islands and suburbs of Maltepe and Altıntepe. When I step outside for a moment, the sky over the ridge beyond our apartment is suddenly dark and the air smells thick. And when it begins to rain, it's as though the clouds that were trudging so slowly up the hill on the far side are now careening and stumbling down the hill towards the Bosphorus. In moments, the dark line of the bridge disappears, and you can hear the tankers call out in the sudden mist. Rivulets merge into momentary cascades, and the view suddenly smells of wet earth and damp pine, then the sharp stinging scent of bruised basil. The city beyond silenced, hushed under the widening spell of the rain.