I used to love the rain.

I'd get excited when I woke up for school and it was drizzling. There was something about the smell of the air, the cool breeze against my skin, and the sound of water hitting the ground or tapping against my umbrella that I found calming. I would carry the biggest umbrella I could find, ready to share it with anyone who loved the rain as much as I did.

It was also around that time that Garbage's I'm Only Happy When It Rains came out, and it instantly became the theme song of my life.

Until we had to bury my mother.

It was supposed to be a summer day, just a few days before my birthday.

But it rained. Not the gentle, comforting rain I used to love.

Right after we lowered my mother six feet into the ground, the rain came down. Hard. Unforgiving. The kind that soaks you in less than a minute, no matter how much you try to hide underneath an umbrella.

It was at that moment when the rain I had loved for so many years became attached to that day.

Now, whenever it rains, I try to remember the girl who used to love it. I try to hear the rain the way I used to; the calming sound against the roof, the smell in the air, the coolness of the breeze.

Sometimes though, the memories come first.

And suddenly, I'm back there. Feeling that same heaviness. Remembering that day. Feeling the rain against my skin as we stood there saying goodbye to my mother.

I think that's why the rain feels different now.

And today, it's heavier than usual. I'm only a few days post-op. I'm still hurting here and there, still recovering, still feeling a little more vulnerable than I usually allow myself to be. And all I want right now is to hug my mom.

The rain is falling outside, tapping against the roof like it always has.

I wish I could hear it the way I used to.

Tonight, though, it's a little too much to bear.