I take the umbrellas that get left behind.  The ones that people forget.  The ones inside out with broken spokes.  They keep me dry for a while until they fall apart completely..  but there’s always another one to take its place.  In the dark with the cover held low they provide me with a special comfort that’s hard to apply logic to.  I guess like a child’s torn blanket or a bale of hay in a barn on a cold night.  It’s just the way it is.   You forget what comfort is until it’s there for you when you need it.

I’ve had this dream a couple of times.  It’s dark and I hear the rain.  I reach for the umbrella.  It’s intact.  Sturdy and strong.  The type carried with by synchronised men wearing suits..   I feel like I’ve changed, like I’ve lost something, like I still want to be the person that takes the umbrellas that people leave behind.


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