At the age of three the rain fascinated you.  The cool splash of something indescribable in your face as you looked up at the gray clouds.  Droplets of water falling from the sky, like a dream. 

At five you remember watching out the window cautiously awaiting the approval of your mother before you can go out and slop in the puddles.  Jumping and playing, just because it was fun.

At nine you stayed inside, moping around the house with boredom following your every step.  A “Rainy Day”  was a dull day where you spent all twenty four hours trying to decide what to do because it was too wet to go out and play. 

At twelve you were over it.  You didn’t like getting wet, you hated the thunder, you hated the idea of rain itself.  Rain was like bad news, and when it came you huddled under the umbrella. 

Now, at an age of understanding, rain is like a safe haven.  At an age where you are finding a ‘place in the world’, rain is like the companion you don’t have.  You willingly wish for it to sprinkle, to pour, to storm.  But more than that, you willingly forfeit yourself to it and find a sense of comfort by walking amongst it.  Rain is like the tears you cannot cry, the rinse to cleanse wounds you cannot heal, the tired ending to a long day, the new beginning to a clean slate.