Do the dead hate the rain? The way I hate it? I used to wonder that sometimes as I stared out my window, a downpour beating a strange rhythm on my slate roof. I lived in a big old house next door to the town cemetery. I could see the expanse of gravestones from my kitchen table through the falling and streaming water, the window distorting the view. Do they hate the wetness? The chill? Rain made me more than gloomy, it elicited in me a dread and fear that I could never explain to anyone. Perhaps foreboding would be the right word, although I know that sounds ridiculously dramatic.  Many times it would bring on one of the migraine headaches that sent me to bed and into the dark for days at a time, wanting to sleep, wanting to throw up, but unable to do either successfully. I would finally lapse into a half-sleep of shadows and noises that I could not quite see or understand fully.