A Warm Rain Reviewed by Lynne Remick Rain is not my Indian name, not the way people think of Indian names. But I am an Indian, and it is the name my parents gave me.
Rain is a unique and freethinking individual.
With the sting of jealousy in the air, colored seed beads around her neck, the salty-taste of a first kiss on her lips and a camera in her hand, Rain begins her 14th year. In the glare of glimmering, ice-trimmed oaks, the world looks so promising. Just when Rain comes of age, her whole world collapses. My eyes grew heavy, fuller, like sponges. My lips and fingertips chilled.