Every summer morning, we open the back door before the heat of the day settles in. We open it to the sound of the quiet mountain world, when no lawnmowers or weed-whackers whine, when no cars growl to life or rumble across asphalt. The only sounds are birds chirping and maybe a gentle rustle of leaves in a soft breeze.

Today, the back door was open when the air conditioner clicked on. I sighed, got up to shut the door to the loud hum of the outdoor unit, and plopped into my chair by closed windows. “Back to being hermetically sealed.”

We’re tired of being sealed in. When we first moved to this house 12 years ago, we only had to turn the air conditioner on maybe 15 days of the summer. It’s been running now, almost nonstop, for probably 45.

“The high is only supposed to be 76 today.”

I sat in my chair and drummed my fingers. Picked up my book and put it down. Walked to the sliding glass door and stepped onto the porch to feel the thickness of the air. It was thick, but there was also a breeze. It wasn’t too terribly hot.

“I’m opening it up.”

I went around the house and pushed every window up as high it would go. Immediately the curtains billowed and fresh air puffed in.

Now, I sit by the by screens instead of glass. A breeze lifts the hairs too short for my ponytail off my neck. I turned my back to grab my laptop to blog, and I smelled rain on hot asphalt. That steamy ozone smell of wetness that evaporates immediately when it hits the street. It drifted in off the macadam like a cartoon aroma from a kitchen, in a long lick that concentrated into a point to enter my nostril, light up my senses, and place me squarely in the physical world. I turned my head to see the rain falling down before I heard it patter on the wooden stairs, on the black driveway, on the broad green leaves of my garden. Now I smell the mint beneath the window, the dust rinsed off, its scent released in its cleansing.