Rain 18 -

That is the gift of Rain 18. It never really ends. It just waits for you to come back outside. The next time it rains, do not run. Do not open your umbrella immediately. Stand still for ten seconds. Close your eyes. Listen to the rhythm. Ask yourself: What did I know at eighteen that I have since forgotten?

But at 18, the rain is a blank page. You haven't made your big mistakes yet. You haven't broken anyone's heart (or had yours truly broken). You are standing at the edge of the map, and the cartographer has written: Here there be dragons. Rain 18

"No," I shouted back.

I turned off my computer. I walked outside. I sat on the curb in front of my building—a different curb, in a different city, in a different life. A neighbor yelled, "Hey, you're going to get wet!" That is the gift of Rain 18

We sat there for an hour. We didn't exchange numbers. We didn't kiss. We just watched the water rise. She told me she was moving to Portland in the morning. I told her I was staying here, even though I didn't know where "here" was. When the rain finally slowed to a whisper, she stood up, brushed off her wet jeans, and walked away without saying goodbye. The next time it rains, do not run