The Smell of Rain on the Balcony

Every family has a scent.Some people might say it is the smell of cooking or laundry detergent. For me, it is the smell of rain hitting the balcony tiles of our apartment.

When I think of home, I do not see rooms first. I smell rain.

We lived on the fifth floor of an old apartment building with narrow hallways and walls that carried sound too easily. If a neighbor argued, everyone knew. If someone cooked fried fish, the entire floor shared the aroma.

Our balcony was small—barely enough space for three plastic chairs and a line of drying clothes. But to me, it felt like the edge of the world. From there, I could see rooftops stretching into the distance and a thin slice of sky that changed color every evening.

My mother loved that balcony.

She grew herbs in chipped ceramic pots—mint, basil, lemongrass. When rain fell, the scent rose immediately, fresh and earthy, filling the apartment with something alive.

As children, my younger sister and I would press our faces against the metal railing during storms, stretching our hands out to feel the cool drops.

Don’t lean too far!” my father would call from inside.

He always sounded strict, but he was usually smiling when he said it.

My father worked as a bus driver. His schedule rotated unpredictably. Some days he left before sunrise; other days he returned close to midnight. I learned to measure time not by clocks but by the sound of his key turning in the door.

That sound meant safety.

Even if I was half-asleep, I would hear it. The slight metallic click. The door opening carefully so as not to wake us.

He would walk straight to the balcony first.

No matter how tired he was, he stepped outside for a minute, breathing in the air. Sometimes he stood there in silence. Sometimes he checked the herbs, touching the leaves gently as if confirming they were still alive.

My mother worked at a small bakery two streets away. Every morning, she left the apartment smelling faintly of flour and sugar. Every evening, she returned with stories—about customers who couldn’t decide between chocolate or vanilla, about children pressing their noses against the display case.

Occasionally, she brought home leftover bread.

Those nights felt like celebrations.

We would sit on the balcony together, tearing warm pieces of bread with our hands while the city hummed below us. Motorbikes zipped through wet streets. Streetlights reflected in puddles. Somewhere, music played from an open window.

When I was thirteen, my parents fought for the first time in a way that frightened me.

It was during the rainy season.

Business at the bakery had slowed. My father’s bus route had been reduced. Money tightened like a rope around our conversations.

The argument began quietly in the kitchen but grew louder. Words like “responsibility” and “future” drifted down the hallway.

My sister sat beside me on the bed, eyes wide.

Rain pounded the balcony tiles.

For the first time, the smell of rain did not feel comforting.

It felt heavy.

After what felt like hours, the apartment grew silent.

The balcony door slid open.

My father stepped outside alone.

He did not know I was watching from the shadows of the hallway.

He placed both hands on the railing and bowed his head slightly. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the air smelled clean again.

A moment later, my mother joined him.

They did not speak at first.

They simply stood side by side.

Then, quietly, my father reached for her hand.

That was all.

No dramatic apology. No long speech.

Just a hand reaching for another in the damp evening air.

The next morning, breakfast was simple but peaceful. No mention of the argument. No lingering anger.

I learned something important that night: love is not the absence of conflict. It is the decision to remain on the same balcony even when storms arrive.

Years passed. My sister grew taller. I grew more distant, lost in exams and friendships and dreams that stretched beyond the fifth-floor view.

I began to feel embarrassed by our small apartment. When classmates talked about large houses and private rooms, I smiled politely and changed the subject.

One afternoon, a friend came over unexpectedly.

I panicked internally, noticing every crack in the wall, every stain on the floor tiles.

But when rain began to fall, she stepped onto the balcony and inhaled deeply.

It smells amazing,” she said.

I had never considered that someone else might find beauty in what I took for granted.

After high school, I left for university in another province.

The apartment felt smaller each time I returned.

Or maybe my world had simply grown larger.

One evening during my second year away, I came home to find the herb pots missing.

The balcony looked emptier.

Where are the plants?” I asked.

My mother hesitated.

They dried out,” she said gently. “We didn’t have time to take care of them.”

I understood what she did not say.

Without children running in and out, without constant presence, the balcony had lost some of its life.

That realization hurt more than I expected.

So the next morning, I went to the market and bought new herbs.

Mint. Basil. Lemongrass.

When I placed them on the balcony, my father laughed softly. “You’re starting over?” he asked.

Yes,” I replied.

That evening, when rain fell again, the scent returned.

Fresh. Green. Familiar.

Now I am older. I live in a different city, in an apartment on a higher floor with a wider view.

But whenever it rains, I open my balcony door.

I close my eyes.

And for a moment, I am back on the fifth floor of the old building. My sister is beside me. My mother is calling us in for dinner. My father is standing by the railing, pretending not to worry while watching us carefully.

The smell of rain carries memory in ways photographs cannot.

It carries arguments that ended in quiet forgiveness.

It carries evenings of shared bread and laughter.

It carries the sound of a key turning in the door.

Family, I have realized, is not defined by space.

It is defined by shared weather.

By standing under the same storm.

By breathing the same damp air and deciding to stay close.

One day, my parents may move from that apartment. The balcony may belong to strangers. The railing may be repainted. The tiles may be replaced.

But the smell of rain will remain.

And wherever I live, whenever the first drops hit the ground and that familiar scent rises into the air, I will remember that small balcony.

I will remember my father’s steady hand.