The best thing about rain is it's the perfect stage to dance on. The perfect setting. There's no color, no hot white lights, just you and the water falling from the sky, with the gray clouds above as your audience. And all you're bound to get from them is applause, more rain, the sound of it striking your stage and encouraging you to dance on and on.

I didn't used to dance in the rain. I used to watch it, sliding down the window, hoping it would stop, so I could go out and frolic, skip, play, dance under the sun. In fields of flowers with a bright blue sky. My perfect world.

Then I met Tristesse.

Tristesse was one of those people who knew how to find joy in everything, because she knew no joy at home. She lived down the street from me and not a day went by when I didn't see her walk by, away from the horror she called family. Yet it didn't down her. Everything made her smile, be it the first spike of a tulip in early spring through frozen ground or the little kids around the corner riding their bikes. She had a beautiful smile.

When I introduced myself to her, she smiled at me-brighter than the sun-, pointed at the sky, and said,"It looks like it's going to rain."

"Too bad," I told her. "It's a beautiful day."

She tilted her head and stared at the gathering clouds. Finally she looked at me. "It still will be." When it began to pour, I invited her in, wanting to get away from the gloom, the unhappiness of the pouring water. She merely shook her head, spread out her arms, and spun around, face to the sky. "I've seen you dance," she murmured. "Why don't you dance in the rain?"

I stared at her in disbelief. It was obvious. I didn't dance in the rain because...because..."It's cold and wet and...dull?" I answered lamely.

Tristesse raised her eyebrows. "It is?" And she began to dance, the water drenching her hair, dripping from her soaked clothes. In delight, she kicked off her shoes and danced more, twirling, arms flying, to some music I could not here. Finally she stopped and smiled at me. "I always thought it was a way for the heavens to beg for the life they're pouring into the land."

There was no way for me to deny that sentiment, for I saw her dance, I saw her give the life she spoke of to the gray around her. And, laughing, I danced with her.

Two months later, Tristesse was dead. Hit by a car. Her family's car. The car her mother was driving. The police called it murder. It was a sunny, beautiful day.

I don't think of Tristesse that often; she died years ago. But I think about her when it rains. Only when it rains. Then I go outside and dance. Dance for the beauty of the life that the heavens took back.