27
Half an Umbrella

2026-09-27 · 628 words

A nor’easter storm is rolling over Boston this weekend, and I sit indoors, lit by warm yellow lamps, as sheets of rain rattle against my window. The smell of rain is in the air; trees bend, branches twist, thunder rumbles.

I tie my second dress shoe and put on my blue rain jacket. I make sure to velcro the sleeves shut, so no water rolls past my wrists and wets the sleeves of my suit.

I take two sandwich bags, the ones you pinch to shut, and turn the second one inside out. Into the inside-out bag I carefully place a 0.5mm pen, my sketchnotebook (volume 11), and a paperback copy of The Talented Mr. Ripley Ella mailed to me yesterday. I don’t have a gallon bag, just the sandwich size, so I take the first bag, cover the tops of the books, and seal it to the inside-out bag below. I hope this is waterproof.

I’m going outside, you see. To brave the elements. As I leave, my roommate volunteers his umbrella. “Thanks,” I smile.

I start walking and feel the pressure of the rain blowing sideways against my suitpants. I hold the umbrella with both hands, horizontal, straight into the wind. My books are tucked under one arm, but the plastic is slippery, so I find myself pressing my elbow tight into my side and constantly re-adjusting the books.

I walk, peering up through my hair and hood, trying to make out the traffic lights so I know when to cross. I gaze down at my dark wet shoes as I step over sticks and puddles on the sidewalk. I nearly walk into an orange cone. Construction, sidewalk closed to pedestrians. A sign motions for me to cross the street.

Ten minutes in, and I can feel my pants begin to stick to my legs as the water seeps through. I’m a couple blocks away, at most. I turn the corner and the wind wrestles me for my umbrella. The wind almost wins; the umbrella turns inside-out. Two-handed, I lever the umbrella to face the wind. I keep walking, and press the upturned bowl of the umbrella into the wind until the umbrella flips back. Two blocks to go.

Ten steps later, the wind strikes again. Like a T-Rex, I roll the umbrella left and right while trying to keep my books pressed against my side. The wind wins. The umbrella bowls out again. I try to turn it right-side out, but this time a couple of metal arms have broken, and half of the umbrella now hangs limp. My pants are already soaked, I think. Oh well.

I give up and lower the umbrella. Immediately, a sheet of cold rain stings my face. I pull my hood lower until all I can see are my soaked-brown dress shoes stepping over twigs and leaves and street grit strewn in shallow puddles. Windblown ripples of water race across the sidewalk as if taunting me, propelled by the wind that won my umbrella.

I lift the broken umbrella. Its surviving half still protects my face. Half an umbrella is better than no umbrella.

I wait to cross the road, standing in the rain shadow of the traffic-light pole. I cross the road and step inside. It’s warm; I take my jacket off. My pants are soaked but my suitcoat is dry, at least.

When I leave, the half-umbrella gets me home. Thank you, half-umbrella.

(Don’t worry, I bought my roommate a new umbrella.)