Why Do I Love the Rain?

Is it because bad things don't happen during colder times?
Certainly not.
My stepfather was just as violent, just as ferociously capable of tearing apart our household on a gloomy day as he was on a sunny one.  More so even.  He hated Christmas.
Is it because I have some inner sentiment that the bad guys of the world can't come out into in and hurt people in the rain?
Perhaps.
Perhaps I have some bizarre belief that good people looking for refuge can find it better in the rain, under cloud cover, in the middle of a chaotic storm when the evils of the world are consumed with themselves and with each other and only wait to prey on the innocent when we least expect it.
Yes.  I think that's what it is.
Bad things happen to good people on sunny days.  And it sucks to cry and be sad with the sun mocking you with its brilliant rays.  Happy children running through sprinklers and nice daddies washing their cars on the front lawn while your world is the antithesis of theirs, a world they never even imagined existed, something they read about in sad books or catch in a flash on the ten o'clock news.
"Girl Races Out Front Door After Being Repeatedly Stricken by Stepfather while Mother Looks On."

Oh, how horrible, they would say.  Look away, honey, there's nothing we can do for her, for people like that, they tell each other, as the sun turns their tans a soft golden brown.

She runs and she runs and the sun follows her everywhere she goes, shining a spotlight on her location, making her easy to find, easy to recover, easy for the police to say, "domestic dispute, troubled teenager, nothing to be done."

The sun shines down on the man punching his fist through the driver's side window of the car, punching to get to his wife trying to take her children and flee.  The sun shows him the way to come home early and catch them before they escape.  The sun gives him power.  The sun makes her scared.

So yes, I prefer the rain.  The rain makes me strong.  The rain makes me stand in the midst of it and dare you to come after me, dare you to try to find me, fight me, at my best.  Even if I cry, even if I'm afraid, you will never know, because the rain will hide me from you, will make me seem strong even when I'm at my weakest.  My curtains always block out the sun and stand open willingly, revealingly, for the rain.
I can feel at home anywhere in the rain, instantly.

The beaches are at their boldest in the rain.  The forests at their greenest and most magical.  The cities seem to equalize all of its citizens under their gray pallor.  Life begins with rain, and it can be wiped clean with rain.  You can't get to me in the rain.

Bring on the rain.