The Umbrella Story

He’s someone she once knew. He’s the reason she loves the rain and why she finds herself always waiting for the next storm. The bigger the storm, the more she remembers, sitting on the back porch at Angel Ave, wrapped in his arms. He always made her feel safe during the loud cracks of thunder. The rain was their music. The pitter-patter, pitter-patter—a melody that built with every drop. Crescendoing as the gray clouds released their burden onto the earth. The music, it was beautiful, peaceful almost, falling from the tree branches that were far above their reach. He would strap her into the stroller, his hand warm on her back, and take her for what he called their umbrella journey. The way the rain sizzled as it hit the pavement, it created a steam that wrapped around them, creating their own world. It always felt magical to her. The soft mist glistening under the flickering streetlight, which seemed to know it was part of something bigger—something just for them. As they walked beneath it, the rain would land gently on her cheeks, left to right, then right to left. It would ease up for a moment, leaving a few beads that tickled her nose. She could still remember the giggles, the kind that escaped her without thinking, the ones that bubbled up when the rain would make her squint and smile. He would laugh behind the beard, his voice a low rumble, and for a moment, the world felt smaller, simpler, perfect. But time had a way of stealing these moments. Years had passed since Angel Ave. Since those rainy walks. Since the man behind the beard. Now, she stands alone waiting for a storm that might bring him back. Hoping that the rain would be enough to bridge the space between what was and what could never be again. She looked up, letting the rain fall over her face, feeling the same cool mist tickle her skin. The giggle, now distant, bubbled up again—soft and bittersweet. She closed her eyes, and for a mom, in the sound of the rain, she could almost hear him laugh, too Maybe it wasn’t about waiting anymore. Maybe it was about accepting that the storm had passed, but the memory of it—the music of the rain—would stay with her always.