It’s been raining a lot these days, and everyone has their own way of staying dry. Most people have umbrellas. Bwogger Lori Luo writes a letter to hers. 

To My Old Umbrella:

I don’t remember when we came into each other’s lives. Maybe you were an Amazon purchase, sent into my arms in an assuming brown box. Or maybe you were the result of a side thought during a Walmart/Target trip, carried to checkout along with a plethora of other items. Either way, your appearance in my life was a welcome one.

Before you, rainy days meant digging through old, broken umbrellas my parents brought over from China in the 90s and deciding which grievance I’d deal with that day. Do I want to have one side of my umbrella to droop due to a broken spoke? Or do I want to hold my umbrella awkwardly close to my face since it won’t extend beyond the initial foot? Or–wait, that umbrella won’t even open. I’m sure you understand then, umbrella, why your blue and purple presence brought me great joy.

Indeed, you have served me well, braving all sorts of rain and the very occasional snow. You were opened with just the click of a button, and I consistently chose you, even when other new umbrellas arrived in the house. You survived being tossed around, shoved into backpacks, being accidentally stepped on, and being used as a method to make horse trotting sounds. Through all of this, you remained a constant, consistent presence. With you, I never feared the rain. And so, when I left for college, naturally, I took you with me.

Maybe, umbrella, you were never meant to be taken out of California, where you were rarely used. Here, I’m afraid you’ve been drenched, buffeted with heavy winds that defeated many of your kind by turning them inside out, and used every week.

Maybe that explains one of your spikes losing its protective cover, leading to me being stabbed (and bleeding) every time I grab you. Even when this occured once right before the 1600 physics midterm, I forgave you. This was an easy fix, I thought. I taped up the offending spike, wrapping it protectively in white cocoon. You stopped stabbing me (thank god). Maybe that explains you not staying closed on your own accord. Clicking you into the lowest position failed to keep you from springing open whenever I didn’t physically hold you closed, and I know you’ve spattered many an unsuspecting bystander with water. That was also a small issue though. I simply just made sure to stick together the velcro bits on your tie, which despite their failing nature as well managed to keep you closed.

However, lately, I have discovered that your central rod has broken. Now, when you’re open all the way, you flop around pathetically, not able to remain straight. To combat this, I’ve taken to only straightening you out partway, as to sheath the broken part. But alas, this is unsustainable. Moreover, you’ve lost the protective covering I made your spike, and I’ve gotten stabbed again.

So, as I’ve ordered a new umbrella off of Amazon, I’m afraid we must say goodbye. Thank you for shielding me from rain. Thank you for traversing the streets of San Francisco, New York, and countless other cities with me. Thank you for never flipping inside out. Thank you for your service, and I wish you the best of luck.

With love,
Lori

The umbrella in question via Bwog