Summer

It was hot. Looking down the road, the waves of heat rippled up off the pavement, causing the air to shimmer. The sounds of a cicada occasionally cut the heavy air, bringing some movement to the stifling day. Even the normally active boy was almost motionless, siting on the porch with an icy lemonade close at hand.
He surveyed the lawn that he had just mown, grass clippings sticking to his arms and legs. Reaching down, he picked up the lemonade and pressed the cool glass to his forehead, the almost too-cold sensation sending chills through his body.
The storm door opened behind him and the smells of home wafted out. His mother's baking, his grandmother's cooking, the smell of dust and age and books that belonged to his grandfather, the scent of fresh and youth that was his sister, and suddenly a large presence behind him that smelled of leather and tobacco and aftershave and all the scents that the boy associated with maleness and his initiation into manhood. His father sat down next to him, setting his own lemonade within arm's reach and pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and with it, the sweet scent of good tobacco. He carefully packed the bowl, worm smooth by the passage of years and the gentle handling it had received and struck a match, waving it over the bowl. As he gently inhaled, the ember slowly grew and and produced the smoke that conjured images of strength and protection in the boy's mind. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said.
The sky gradually clouded up, a storm of summer forming on the horizon and moving swiftly in, bringing rain and scrubbing the air clean. It passed quickly as those types of storms often do. In its wake it left a verdant sparkling world which smelled of fresh-cut grass and clean summer rain.
The boy drew in a deep breath, heavy with all the smells surrounding him and smiled.