I never really liked the rain — I never had a reason to. It made my two-sizes-too-big t-shirt stick to my skin. It made my legs itchy and my socks wet. Most of all, it made the days gray and somber. But my mom loved the rain. Of course she didn’t love when it would make her hair frizzy. Or when it would run her perfect mascara from her eyes down to her cheeks. Still, she found the beauty in each storm — she was good at that. She loved the way it sounded pattering against the back door. The way it made her favorite flowers blossom in the front yard. Most of all, she loved the puzzles we would do together,  The movies we would watch, The blanket we would share.  But things are different now. When the clouds get heavy, I find solace in the rain.  I sit in the same chair where she once sat cheering my sister and I on as we performed our Unimpressive trampoline tricks. I can feel the rain as it glues my shirt to my skin. But this time, I don’t mind. I know she’s embracing me the only way she can. I feel it as it drips down my face, now indistinguishable from my tears. Except, this time, I don’t mind. I know she is crying with me. Sometimes I feel embarrassed sitting in my backyard talking to the sky,  But I push my dignity aside for now. I know she can hear me.  I was never really spiritual, I never had a reason to be.  But things are different now. There isn’t much I have left of her, But I do have the rain. She visits me every once in a while.