the cloud the sea

“PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN, YOU FIEND!”

The umbrella cried out in vain, for the woman who picked him up paid no heed to his desperate cries. She was either heartless (which the umbrella imagined to be the case), or she was deaf to the speech of umbrellas (which I think is the more plausible scenario).

Even if she could understand him, the downpour might have drowned out his words altogether. It was quite the deluge – as fierce a storm as any the umbrella had seen in his many years of service, and perhaps the rock-bottom worst tonight, given his undesirable circumstances.

“THIEF! THIEF!” Again, the umbrella’s cries were to no avail. He was held tight in the woman’s fist, and he was along for the ride, with no inkling as to how far she’d take him.

It turned out that the answer was ‘Not very far, not very far at all!’ To the umbrella’s dismay, a strong, whistling gust of wind swooped in and hit him square in the heart. His metal arms flung outward, and he was turned inside out! His coat flew off two of his spokes, one of his arms twisted and bent quite painfully, and in a single moment, he turned from a healthy, proud protector against the rain into a broken, beaten mess.

I hesitate to comment on the woman’s character, but at this moment her behavior was hardly admirable. Frowning in disgust as she looked at her now-soaked jacket, she flung the twisted umbrella to the ground, where he landed in a crumpled heap. The umbrella heard her mumble to herself, “This coat cost me a fortune!” as she stormed away into the torrential rains.

Now the umbrella was more disheartened than he had ever, ever been in his long and illustrious career. He had dutifully served his owner-friend over the years, and he took pride in his drops-upon-human-per-minute score, which he deemed quite respectable, though there was always room for improvement. [The umbrella was very humble, but I’ll tell you this – in his golden years, his score was record-setting amongst the umbrellas with whom he had associated.]

‘Well, all the good times end,’ muttered the umbrella to himself, ‘but I didn’t think it’d be this bad!’

The umbrella wondered in despair how he would ever make it home. He was grieved as he imagined never seeing his owner-friend again. His owner-friend was a kind old man, and the umbrella had admired him more with each decade that passed. The umbrella had protected his man from anything that clouds had ever been able to conjure up, ranging from the light drizzles of just-grey skies all the way to the roaring typhoons of the soaking Pacific summers.

The umbrella had even been in hand when his owner-friend met the lady he would marry. (In fact, the umbrella took no small credit for introducing them.) His man had been quite young, that so-long-ago summer, and he was silly, like most all the young humans are. He was brave, too, and especially so on that stormy afternoon.

Clear-as-day, the umbrella could still see in his memory the image of that distraught young lady, standing in the middle of a road-crossing, caught in a surprise summer downpour, with no cover at all; he remembered fondly how his owner-friend had narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow in heroic determination as he marched right over to that young lady and offered up the services of the steadfast umbrella. Well, the typhoon soaked right through the man, but he knew the umbrella would make him proud; and, sure enough, the umbrella didn’t let another single drop find its way to the pretty young lady.

And my, my, was she pretty, and nice, too! The umbrella sheltered her countless times over the years, and they were nearly always together, his man and his lady. The three of them became fast friends, and they had far too many adventures for me to tell you about all of them here.

When the woman passed away, the umbrella had done some of his best work keeping the kind old man dry during the rains at her funeral. It was all he could offer in hopes of cheering up his owner-friend.

Now, his owner-friend would think the umbrella had just abandoned him – the man was going to be double-lonely!

Beat-up, and worried about his friend, the umbrella could do nothing as he lay on the sidewalk. The torrent continued for hours, all through the night. Umbrellas see better at night than humans do, fortunately, so he wasn’t scared as the storm made the sky as dark and thick as can be; he watched families of birds take cover in nooks of buildings, and saw faces of humans as they looked out of their warm, orange-lit apartments. He wondered how his owner-friend could have possibly gotten home dry.

As the sun came up, slowly-slowly, the umbrella began to feel embarrassed, and guilty, and ashamed. What good was he? He couldn’t even stick with his owner in the hour of need.

This was not his fault, as you know – he was stolen, after all! Sometimes, however, the bad things others do to us make us feel ashamed, even though we had no part in them. To prevent this, we always need friends to love us and remind us of what is true.

The umbrella, unfortunately, was now very much alone, and couldn’t help but begin to feel ashamed. “I’m just a good-for-nothing, stolen umbrella,” he thought. The prospect of finding his way back to his owner-friend was beginning to seem less likely with every passing minute as the sunlight grew, and the umbrella was on the verge of giving up hope.

Just at that moment, a little girl skipped out of the apartment complex nearby. She was whistling like a bird, and pretending she was flying, and her smile was so bright, her face so radiant, that the umbrella thought for a moment that she must be partly made of sunlight! As he saw how bright she was, and how happy, he felt anew his sense of shame, and sat still and quiet, hoping she wouldn’t see his tattered, ugly form as she skipped by.

It was not to be. As soon as she spotted him, though she was still some way off, she skipped right over, and with a squeal of delight, she picked him right up.

“Umbrella, Umbrella, Hello Mr Umbrella!”

The umbrella stayed silent, but the little girl didn’t notice. He was too shocked at being picked up by her to protest; he only hoped she wouldn’t try to open him – a hope quickly dashed!

“Umbrella, be a bird with me, help me fly!” she said, as she moved to open his metal arms!

The umbrella was horrified – what would she say? She struggled with his twisted metal arm, and tried to spread his over-coat, but the mangled arm and the loose over-coat just left him flapping and flopping in her arms.

Frowning, she tried to open him once more, and again did not succeed; the umbrella’s metal trunk screeched and his arms just trembled. The umbrella couldn’t help but groan in dismay.

“Did you say something, Mr Umbrella?”

The girl could hear him! What a disaster this was – and it was only getting worse!

“No! No. I’m sorry, little girl. I didn’t say anything. Maybe it would be for the best if you just put me down – ”

“A talking umbrella! A talking umbrella! Yay! You’ll be a wonderful bird! Can you whistle, Mr Umbrella?”

“Eh – whistle? Oh, no – unfortunately, I can’t whistle – ”

“Mr Umbrella! What are you doing with broken wings? You can’t play Birds with broken wings!”

“Little girl, last night I was…” The umbrella paused, grieving at what he had to say. “I was stolen, and I was broken in a storm.”

“That sounds like a sad night,” said the little girl. “How did you end up by my house?”

“The one who stole me threw me down after I broke. It was very, very windy, you see. And now, I’m ashamed. I’m just a broken umbrella.”

“Why do you sound so glum, umbrella? Glumbrella!”

The umbrella was none too pleased at this nickname. He was quite cheerful, generally. “I’m glum because I was stolen, little girl, and now my owner – my truest friend – he will think that I’ve abandoned him, after everything we have been through together.”

“Mr Umbrella! It’s not your fault you were stolen! You shouldn’t feel ashamed over that!”

“I suppose that’s true. But surely there is something more I could have done – ”

“Don’t be silly, Mr Umbrella!”

The umbrella didn’t say anything for a moment, but he wasn’t feeling nearly so melancholy as before.

“Perhaps… perhaps you are right, little girl. But now I fear I’ll never find my way back to my owner-friend.”

“You sound like Glumbrella again! It’s NOT your fault you were stolen, but it IS your fault if you give up on getting back to your friend! You know – I have an idea that will be even more fun than playing Birds… Let’s get you back to your owner!!”

There was nothing he’d like better! But then again… he wondered if his owner-friend would take him back, tattered as he was.

“Thank you, kindly, for trying to help, but really, what use can I be to him now?” asked the umbrella, as he looked to his twisted arm, and his over-coat flapping on loose spokes, and several holes where he had been torn by the pavement.

“Friends always want to see their friends, umbrella! Don’t you know that? And don’t you worry about this,” she said, looking him over. “I’ll get you fixed up good-as-new. Better than good-as-new!”

And just like that, the little girl got to work. The umbrella grimaced as she bent his arm back to the correct angle; it hurt, but he was brave as ever, especially with his renewed hope that he may yet be reunited with the kind old man after all. The little girl stretched his over-coat just-so, slipping the plastic spokes onto the tips of his metal arms where they came loose. She even stitched little patches onto the tears in his coat, and then cleaned his metal trunk till it was shining silver. He felt brand new – no, he felt better than brand new!

“Now, Mr Umbrella, I think you’re ready!”

The umbrella was speechless. Umbrellas don’t cry when they’re very happy; they can only smile big and then bigger, which they do by spreading their arms out as wide as can they can. The umbrella smiled so wide he could keep four people dry!

“I can never thank you enough, little girl! But I have to ask – why did you do this for me? I was just a broken, stolen umbrella, ready for the trash!”

I’ll tell you the real reason why the little girl picked up the umbrella and fixed him up, better than good-as-new. She did this because she was very good at imagining. She was always imagining what it would be like to be a tree, or a toy, or a bird. She never liked to find broken, lonely, lost things, because she knew from imagining that if she were broken, or lonely, or lost, she would be quite sad, and she would hope very much for someone to fix her, and befriend her, and help her find her way home. She told the umbrella this, as best she could, though she wasn’t well practiced in explaining her thoughts just yet. [She learned to do this better, as she grew older, and she actually became a writer – you might even know some of her stories!]

The umbrella admired his new little friend, this special human who could hear, and would listen, even to a lost, old umbrella.

“Now, Mr Umbrella – how do we find your owner?”

The umbrella told her that his owner always visited a certain park on this particular day of the week. He liked to go there to read. The little girl knew just the one – her mother took her to the playground there! Now that it was the holidays, there was no better time to go. The little girl ran to ask her mother oh-so-sweetly if they could go to the park, holding the good-as-new umbrella behind her back. The mother agreed – it was a beautiful day for the park – and in no time they were making their way down the sidewalk.

The umbrella could hardly contain his excitement. He was not one given to exuberant displays of emotion, but all this activity had him nearly trembling.

Finally, the park was within view. They passed the rhino statues at the entrance, and then the pond, and then the children’s park on the left, and the umbrella knew that this was it – their last chance, for if his owner were here, he’d be on the last bench, under the shade-trees just ahead!

The girl was full of the umbrella’s excitement now, too, and she skipped and ran the last stretch. As they rounded the path, the avenue lined with benches came into view –

– and to the gutting dismay of both the umbrella and the girl, every bench was empty.

The mother didn’t understand why the girl was on the verge of tears, clutching a worn-out old umbrella she seemed to have found somewhere. The little girl didn’t want to play any games – not even hide-and-go-seek – and she turned down every idea the mother offered. She didn’t even climb a tree! The mother did her best to cheer her up. Finally, she saw that it was not going to work today, and she decided that they ought to return home.

As they began to pack their things, the mother noticed an old man, shuffling slowly toward the pond. He wore brown pants and a worn grey coat, and at the water’s edge he stopped and gazed forlornly into the water. Something about the scene broke the mother’s heart. She decided to go have a chat before they left. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she saw her daughter race down the path to the pond, squealing with delight as the umbrella flurried along in her hand. The mother dropped the bags and raced after her, afraid her daughter might race right into the water and ruin her new shoes.

Instead, however, her daughter ran right up to the old man, who turned, and with his own exclamation of delight, accepted the umbrella as it was offered from the girl. As the mother arrived, breathless, the old man was nearly bouncing with happiness.

“Thank you, thank you!” he beamed. “I looked all over this morning – I was sure I had left it at the restaurant last night – I nearly didn’t come here to read today, upset as I was at misplacing my umbrella!”

He turned to the mother with a big smile. “Is this your daughter?”

“Yes! I’m sorry, sir – did she have your umbrella?”

The little girl answered first. “Yep, found it mom, found him this morning, wanted to play Birds at first but he wanted to find his owner-friend so I fixed him up, all happy now!”

She kept talking, but the rest was in whistles. She was playing Bird with Mr Umbrella one last time, before he went back to his owner-friend’s house.

“I cannot express to you how grateful I am,” said the man to the mother. He had a very kind voice. “She did fix him up well – look at that patch!” he pointed out a glittery blue swatch of fabric handstitched into the umbrella’s over-coat, visible as the little girl twirled around with the umbrella. “I met my late wife under that umbrella. It came with us when we moved to this country, young and hopeful. I can’t count how many rainstorms it kept us dry from. It even kept me dry at her funeral – from the rain, at least – just a few years ago. As I get older, I become quite attached to things like this – silly old man I may seem, but I’d have to call this umbrella an old, dear friend!”

After they had chatted for some time, and the little girl had finished playing Birds, and with smiling tears, had handed the umbrella back to the man, she and her mother left for home. As they walked hand-in-hand down the pathway, the little girl looked back for the man, but he and the umbrella were nowhere to be seen.

She began to imagine where they might have gone…