I have a broken umbrella on the third shelf of a built-in bookcase in my room. It’s small and black with rainbow polka dots. One of the metal ribs snapped during a huge storm in the summer of 2023, and it’s been sitting there ever since collecting dust on the rusted bars.
The warm storm winds were so strong it turned the umbrella inside-out and yanked its screws out of place, making it unusable. When it rains, water falls down the broken side of the umbrella and pours onto my back since the plastic cover can’t be held. I no longer look to the umbrella for help when it rains, as it’s not an option for protection.
The umbrella has no function in my life and there’s no tangible purpose to keeping it. It’s tarnished and was probably bought at a drugstore, yet I still can’t bring myself to discard such a useless item. So, I leave it sitting in the corner of my room.
The umbrella was my grandmother’s. She kept it on a key hook next to her garage door. I recall seeing it there, sitting idly each time I visited her house. On a couple of occasions, I used the umbrella when walking to the park across the street or while getting ice cream with her at the local creamery.
I received the umbrella the week after my grandmother passed away during my sophomore year of college. My parents were cleaning out my grandmother’s house and sifting through her closets, basement and sewing room, all packed to the brim with collections of objects. My parents went through the 40 years of her life under one roof designating what was to be kept, passed on or given away.
I was there to help my mom decide which clothing items might be best suited for Goodwill or thrown out. While going through her items, we would occasionally find things she sewed together or clothes from my late grandfather she never gave away.
After multiple days of collecting clothes and sewing fabrics and compartmentalizing my dad’s childhood memorabilia in the basement, the house was empty. Forty years of holidays, Fourth of July parties and gatherings on the back deck all amounted to the bags packed next to the house’s front door.
There was no longer a display case of porcelain bells next to the front door I could secretly ring when no one was home. I could never sit on the dusted carpet of my grandma’s living room in my too-small pajamas watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I couldn’t lean against my cousins and listen to laughter from the other room waiting for Christmas Eve dinner.
While standing in the foyer of an empty house, I breathed in, taking in the only remaining memory — its scent. The house’s smell ran through my brain, recalling all the memories I made in that house and with my grandmother.
After the house was completely cleaned, my parents were going to drive me back to college, but it started to rain. So my mom gave me the umbrella covered in rainbow polka dots.
It only lasted me around three months before it broke, but I’ve kept it far past its expiration date. I never plan on fixing the umbrella or even trashing it because when I see it on my shelf I can almost smell that foyer and hear the laughter from the other room. When I see the umbrella I can feel my grandmother, short and warm, hugging me after coming in from the cold.
Losing my grandmother left me with waves of grief. Some days I forget that she has passed but when the realization hits so does the pain of no longer finding comfort in her arms or home. So, I keep the umbrella to subtly hold on to her loving and protective nature.
I also have a hard time buying a new umbrella. Every time the opportunity arises, I remind myself I already have one at home, sitting on my shelf. Purchasing a new umbrella would feel like a betrayal to all it represents and the inklings of life it holds.
I know it’s pointless to keep such an ineffective item, but when I see it next to my bedroom door I remember all the moments I spent with my grandmother. Even though the umbrella is impractical, it’s a little thing that connects me with some of my favorite parts of childhood.
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