You are alone. It is midnight. You hear the rain and move towards it. You sit on the porch. The houses around you are dark. The only light is two streetlamps. You reach out your hand to the rain. The coolness is delicious. There is something erotic about the moment. You love the darkness, the wetness on your skin, the connection you feel with your body. It's beautiful and exhilarating. The rain pounds harder, the intensity builds. You feel free.
You could walk off the porch, let the rain soak through your clothes, let yourself lie on the slick grass and plunge your hands and feet into the thick mud. No one would know. You could even walk into the woods and disappear. You imagine your mother waking in the morning to find your room empty and the front door open and no trace of you left. You could leave right now and, if this were a novel or a movie, you would, but life calls to you--louder than the rain, louder than your aching, even louder than your grief. You walk back into the house, lock the door behind you, and wipe the rain from your skin. It's only a memory now. You will write it.