I know I'm not the only one who can't read Peter Pan stuff without crying. Don't lie.

Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan.

Raining

The day after you returned me home, it was raining.

John, Micheal, the Lost Boys all seemed to think this meant you weren't coming. They didn't believe you were coming back at all, I think. I was angry at them for that – I didn't want them to be right. You had promised you'd come back, after all, and maybe they hadn't heard it but I had. I sat by the window for hours and stared out at the sky and the rain. I hoped beyond hope that you'd appear before me, no different except for a bit of water, and reach out to tap me on the nose for worrying, cheeky as usual.

But you never came.

Nor did you the next night, when the skies were clear. Nor the night after that, when it was chilly and a bit cloudy.

Still, I didn't cry.

-

The night I first woke from a dream of you, it was raining.

I can't quite remember the details of the dream at this moment – I believe you and I were sharing an ice cream cone or something else trivial – only that I awoke suddenly and saw but a bare window being flecked with water. I half-expected you to be at the window seat, hugging your sides as you laughed at me and my silly dreams.

But you weren't there.

Nor were you the next night, when it was slightly windy. Nor the night after that, when it was hot.

But no, I didn't cry.

-

The day I finished the last of my schooling, it was raining.

It was quite the dreary ceremony, my graduation, and all I could think the whole time was how much I would rather be at home, relaxing with a good book. One of my friends whispered to me to look out the window; that's when I noticed the change in weather from simply dull to drizzling gray beauty. I smiled because I knew this whole ceremony would just bore you to tears, but my smile seemed to fade when I realized that I was now, by every definition, no longer a child. The ceremony was marking the transition from Us to Them, and nobody else seemed to mind.

I looked to the quickly-streaked window again and longed with all my now-grown up heart to see your grin and red hair.

But you didn't appear.

Nor did you when I looked again a few minutes later as my least favorite teacher spoke to the crowd and the rain came down harder. Nor after the ceremony when I looked again once more and the downpour had turned to drizzle.

You can bet, though, that I didn't cry.

-

The day my beau asked me to marry him, it was raining.

It was at a party thrown by my parents, with all my relatives (including the Lost Boys) there to watch him get down on one knee. Aunt Millicent was sobbing about how terribly romantic it was; she was squeezing Slightly like she'd never let go. Just before he – my beau, that is, not Slightly – asked me the three words I'm sure most women would have been ecstatic to hear, I heard a clap of thunder and saw the magnificent downpour outside the window. I thought of you, how you'd wrinkle your nose at this grown up party and my grown up dress, and then my beau proposed.

I was happy, of course – it should be said that I did love him, and cared for him deeply – but I couldn't help but think of you again. Your wrinkled nose became, wide, shocked eyes and a dropped jaw and I hated – hated – that I was disappointing you like this. You would have considered this the ultimate betrayal, I knew.

I looked for your face at the window, wanting so badly for you to be there so I could apologize, or explain, I'm not quite sure.

But I didn't see you.

Nor did I an hour later, when the thunder got louder and my brothers and all the Lost Boys insisted on dancing with me. Nor at the end of the night when there was a bit of lightning that scared the last of the exiting guests.

I didn't cry. But I did say yes.

-

Today, when you came back, it wasn't raining.

The night is warm and dark and thick with summer. You look entirely the same, but that is to be expected. My husband is in the kitchen and my children are sleeping. Seeing you brings me the most agonizing feelings of happiness and regret – that I didn't stay, that you didn't come, that I can't ever go with you again. I've forgotten how to fly. It's killing me to say no to you.

You have no idea how much I've missed you.

I start to cry.

The day after you returned me home, I told my brothers and the Lost Boys the drops of water on my face were from the open window and rain. The night I first dreamed of you, I ignored the dampness on my pillow. The day of my graduation, my family thought the wetness of my cheeks was from happiness. The day my husband proposed, he assumed I was crying tears of joy.

Don't you know that every time I cry, it's for you?

You hug me tight, I sob, you sob, I wish we could worked. We were too different even then, I suppose; now even more so. I smile through my tears and wish the rain would fall for us.

I think of you when it is raining so I have an excuse to cry.

Reviews are good for the soul.

Jax