You’re probably wondering why I haven’t written to you sooner, or at all this past season. Have I hurt your feelings? If so, I’m awfully sorry. I’ve just been so busy with my holiday and a silly little website called WordPress which I spend all my time on in the hotel. Both are very time-consuming but I’m happy. Don’t be upset, please. Don’t cry anymore, I’m begging. The rain is ruining these cute olive flats that I have and causes my hair to frizz even more than it does normally. I know you’re angry. I know—I know that most people don’t respect you because you seem so cold and bitter and gray. We turn our collars up at you—quite literally—seeing as how we have to protect our delicate human skin. It dries and chaps quite easily in the severity of your winds and you know that. I wish I didn’t need an umbrella, secretly. I wish I could just step outside and not mind how cold you are, how you chill me down to the very marrow in my bones, causing my fingertips to prune and my lips to tremble. But I do want to apologize. I’m sorry that we don’t always realize how enchanting you are, how absolutely breathtaking you can be. I always take a second or two to pause and admire the droplets that rim the roofing on the hotel, like the butter-cream icing used on gingerbread houses to decorate the scaffolding. I find myself wanting to pick a whole bunch of them, of your watery stems, and string them together into a lovely little bouquet and give them to a close friend or a lover. Watery bouquets are so awfully romantic, though quite fleeting because their shelf life is even lesser than that of a regular bouquet of roses. I think the receiver would try to hold onto them a little tighter, admire them a little more. I like how you glitter in the sunlight like diamonds, like the entire ground is made up of pearl-and-crystal rock. The smells we give to your season, like warm bread and holly and cinnamon and wrapping paper. Your perfume is one of my favorite things, Rainy; even held above Sunny’s flowery musk and cloying jasmine and robust sandalwood. I like that you contain my favorite holiday. I like that when the first rains comes, you never disappoint. You always manage to give my breath reason to catch and out out out come the knitted sweaters and thick coats and denim jeans. You turn cheeks rosy and give a sparkle to dark eyes. You bring out an otherworldly beauty to us, to people. You make us something to see. You cause laughter for the brave ice-cream eaters and window-mist artists and you make curling up in a little corner somewhere with a good book and hot chocolate so much more inviting than normal. But you know my heart also belongs to the Sun. You know I love her nearly as much as I adore you. I long for her sunny skies and tulips and the smell of fresh cut grass and their crisp mornings and longer evenings that fold neatly into the night. You are loved, Rain, but the Sun brings her own delights and deserves to be seen, too. But don’t worry, don’t you cry. By the time we see each other again I will have longed for you three times as much and when your icy fingers come to envelope me in your lovers’ embrace, finally, I will hug you back just as hard and maybe even cry a little bit and you, ever so thoughtful, will hug my tears right on my cheeks, then flow down and kiss my neck. And I will laugh and spin around a dozen times in a circle and hug myself and sing, sing, sing until my throat aches. And then I will jump in puddles and ruin my olive flats and let your fingers frizz my hair just this once. Because even though you’ll never admit it, I know that you’ll have missed me too.