New York City, October 2, 2012
★ Rain in annoyingly variable amounts. Attrition due to false rain forecasts and forgetfulness had reduced the household cheap-umbrella arsenal to one, possibly broken, in an unfortunate shade of blue. But the rain was light enough to be stopped by a raised jacket hood, with the umbrella in reserve. And then, after a brief stop to use a fax machine, it was not light anymore. Sheets of water were starting to shine on the sidewalks. In the shelter of a scaffold, the umbrella came out of the bag. Yes, it was broken. The ribbing had come unjointed. On Broadway, the wind flopped it inside out. Turn it right-side out, to flop again. Downtown, off the subway, women walked by in clear emergency ponchos with the name of a restaurant printed on them. Still the rain had let up enough to venture the hood again, to keep the dangling blue bat-corpse furled — or, no, the rain was a little too heavy for the hood, but not too heavy to bear for two and a half blocks, to the fresh black umbrellas hanging on the open door of the market. There was a trash can right there, for the cellophane wrapper and the superfluous nylon sheath and, at last, the twitching, slack remains of the old one.