Try some understanding

Monday. 7:30 p.m. Walking home from work in the rain, my running shoes squishy with rain water, I find myself grateful for having remembered to bring an umbrella. At least my head is dry. Perhaps being wet makes us feel like we’re deevolving, returning back to our amphibian state. The rain fills me with a drizzle of memories and thoughts. It’s reassuring, for thoughts are the domain of humans, not frogs.

7:31 p.m. My father used to say that bubbles in the puddles meant it would rain all day. Funny the things you remember. Not metric conversion. Certainly not phone numbers. But rules about puddle bubbles. The bubbles float along making the gutter puddles appear effervescent.

7:43 p.m. I encounter someone on the sidewalk with a huge umbrella. We face each other, each unable to pass. What’s with these huge beach umbrellas that take up the sidewalk? They’re like the double-wide strollers of the rain. We stand there facing each other, like Robin Hood and Little John running into one another on a narrow bridge. But rather than joust, I step off the sidewalk and into a puddle.

7:44 p.m. Why is it so heartbreaking to see a small child hold an umbrella in the rain? It’s like their first tiny taste of responsibility.

7:45 p.m. As a kid, I remember the first time I ever saw one of those collapsible umbrellas. The way they popped out with the flick of a button reminded me of a switch blade. I begged my mother to buy one and when she did – a pink frilly model – I spent the day brandishing it while singing the Jet Song from Westside Story. By the end of the afternoon, the umbrella was broken.

7:48 p.m. Were hoods originally marketed as “wearable umbrellas”? Has anyone ever invented a raincoat covered in fans that could simply blow the rain away from you and right onto other people? 7:50

p.m. Once at a pizza parlour with nothing to read, I stared at an umbrella left behind on the seat opposite me as I ate. It inspired an idea for a short story: because of their propensity for umbrella travel, Mary Poppins and the Penguin are set up on a blind date by mutual friends. These friends imagine that, since the two have the umbrellas in common, they’ll have so much to talk about. The date does not go well.

7:55 p.m. I return home and get out of my wet clothes and take a hot shower. Undoubtedly, the best umbrella of all is a house.