There’s a parallel universe made entirely of forgotten umbrellas. You’ve seen the gateway portals — coffee shops, buses, coat racks in church basements. Each one of those umbrellas was once chosen, purchased, maybe even loved. Now they sit — crooked, water-stained, their spines bent like arthritic fingers — waiting for someone who’s never coming back.
I saw one yesterday, slumped beside a trash can like a defeated drunk. It made me wonder: how many things in life do we intend to keep holding onto but abandon the second the weather clears? Friendships, resolutions, that half-read copy of Moby Dick — all left behind the moment the storm passes.
Maybe the lesson is to travel lighter. Or maybe it’s just that everything — people, umbrellas, the weird phase where you thought you could pull off a fedora — is temporary.
I didn’t take the umbrella. I’m not a hero.
