[Image by RidiculousDream at DeviantART]
I have always liked umbrellas in the rain. The first one I ever had was purple with a mother of pearl handle. I thought I was the grooviest person on the block at six years of age.
I saw a woman today with an umbrella decorated with an enormous sunflower. She looked embarrassed by the loudness of her umbrella. In comparison she was dressed quite drably.
I saw a man with a pink umbrella with a frill around the edge. He had obviously borrowed it from his wife or girlfriend. His head was bowed as if hoping no one would recognise him with his pink, frilly umbrella.
I saw a little boy with a green umbrella designed to look like a giant frog. The giant frog was obviously influencing him because he couldn’t help but croak as he walked along.
It has been raining for three weeks. Torrential, pounding rain. There are so many puddles on the ground the wind pulls at them like syrup. Children are making little boats out of leaves and tooth picks, watching them travel along the street.
The rain has no colour until it hits the land where it is filled with greens and browns, sometimes blues. I saw a puddle of pink form beneath a rose bush where the blossoms had fallen. It reminded me of gathering rose petals as a child in order to make perfume. It never worked – the petals turned brown and so did the perfume. I quickly discovered that none of my friends wanted to dab brown water that smelled slightly of rotting flowers behind their ears.
I like the rain. The arpeggios on glass. The windscreen wipers moving back and forth like a heartbeat. The clean-washed streets. The leaves on trees as shiny as if they’ve just been polished.
I do like the rain, but it’s also nice when it clears and a shaft of sunlight breaks through.