a broken umbrella lays on the floor. chords of metal are meshed, intertwined and mangled, ripping through the plastic material. once a shield, its punctures have rendered it useless against nature’s elements, and it is no longer able to perform what’s required.
she remembers when she acquired it, not wanting to leave without it because it was so pretty and special. she remembers how it made her feel safe, and when it protected her. not very well, but just enough.
he shakes the water out of his hair and hands her a towel. she drapes it across herself, and looks down at what she can only describe as an old friend.
the storm outside was vicious and unforgiving, and they’d braved it together, with two casualties; his umbrella and hers. yet the sentamentalist inside her doesn’t want to let it go.
he picks it up and tells her it’s time to throw it away. there’s no use for it now, he tells her. it was never strong enough anyway. he has already discarded the other one.
she doesn’t feel like it’s time yet, but will there ever be a right time? even when it’s replaced, will it feel right to let it go? when do you know that it’s time to take this step?
she pulls the umbrella away from him and perches it at the top of her bookshelf, with all the other things she can’t let go of. it will never be touched or used again, but its existence comforts her, even though she’ll soon find a replacement. and she asks him to let her win, to accept her decision and her feelings just this once.
but the top of the bookshelf is running out of space. and eventually someone has to do the letting go.