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.