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My umbrella is a gay splash of colour on this sweet grey-scale day, a day when one could feel as if one walked in a fancy silver-screen old movie. My hand curls around the handle that was once part of any old fence post, and the canopy stretches above me as if it were the blossoms of a rainforest.

They used that umbrella in rain and shine, that navy blue fabric adorned with flowers protected them just the same. It was small, humble I guess, perhaps that's why it suited them so well. There was a time I bought something larger, more expensive looking black fabric and an ornate curved handle. They had laughed in a way that felt cozy, welcoming, even as they shook their heads. Then uncle said, "Under something so large, what would be my excuse to cuddle up to Jenny?" I grinned, letting my eyes find the knots on the wooden floor, each plank made beautiful years of sunlight.