Umbrellaphile

The day opened with a snap. Rent right down the middle like an over stuffed pillow slashed open with a butcher’s knife, the sky split apart. Many miles above my home condensation communed into unbearable fatness and tumbled from gauzy hammocks. Some were destined for the hard slap of concrete, others the joyride over bubble shaped cars while a further few found their end sliding between the bristling gap between collar and flesh.

You are in my right hand, handle curled about my arm like a question mark on an old fashioned typewriter. My left hand unbuttons you and you shake loose with a rustled sigh like hair relaxing. I reach under your full ruffled skirt, and as I swing you skywards in a familiar arc, press your little hidden button. You arch back gracefully in balanced tension, six arms spread out for flight. Your half egg shell covering hovers tenderly and bubble-like above my head. As the light filters through your translucent skin you glow a sweetly welcoming shade of blossom pink. Together we press on despite the driving rain.

The wind teases your edges and swells you. The curve of your handle sits comfortably inside my gloved hand in solidarity. On occasion I lean my head against your slender body and you press reassuringly into my shoulder. As your canopy envelopes me in an agreeable confinement, I look up and admire your decorative polka dots arrayed like constellations in a Martian sky. Your shiny skeleton intrigues me anew and I ponder your arachnid balance of art and engineering.

From the drizzle to the deluge you have stood beside me through it all. Thank you.