Sometimes to practice not doing she would sit at each stoplight and turn off the windshield wipers as the rain came down in fast sheets over her car, and the itchy, ingrained feeling of needing so badly to flick on the wipers but not turning them on would build a kind of strength, a good patience, an appreciation for the beautiful way that rain runs in thick folds over angled glass, highlighted in cherry red, then amber, then kelly green, then finally to be pushed up and over the side by the thin black blades, but only when absolutely necessary.