Summary: The obvious is not the only truth.
Author's Notes: A team_prose entry for writerverse, on "Umbrella" and "Loss," and for writers_choice (also "Umrella").
Most believed they offered shelter. The shape, they said, and Note the height, the handle. Their function is entirely clear.
But others knew there were more secrets to be found: Open them, and see what you learn.
Flowers fell out for one man, money for another. Laughter might come pouring down, or tears, or simply the sound of angry whispers when there was a history involving a wrong. You might be pelted by a hail of question marks, or enfolded by the fragrance of a sunny afternoon. Or you might be one of so many whose umbrellas offered nothing but empty silence.
Some people kept them closed, an extended postponement of knowing what kind of message hid inside. Others tried theirs out repeatedly, each result just one in a series of fortune-cookie futures they were never that serious about to begin with.
Mine has been opened. Twice. Perhaps I believe the message will not come true unless I know it, or that knowing it beforehand simply won't help.
Music spilled out the first time I opened it, and a shower of baby booties the second.
My child is three now, soft-skinned sweetness and an endless dreamer of all things. To hope for more happiness would be hubris.
To fear the loss of something so wonderful is altogether human.
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