082. umbrellas for sunny days.


While waiting in Centerway, there were some migratory guitarists. This was Thursday. They both had acoustic guitars. One was shout-singing as he strummed, commenting on what he saw.

The day was the grey-sun-cold-hot days, the ones where you wonder why you have a jacket as you move, and gratefully cuddle into it as soon as you stop, as soon as the sun hides. I had been there a while, and was wrapping everything with my hoodie, rubbing chilly hands together, sitting as condensed as possible.

As I was watching, a grouchy mid-sixties late-fifties gent passed by. He was carrying an umbrella, navy blue in one hand, walking with his scowl. It is grey and coldish. His expression matches that of the girl with the short sleeves, angrily waiting for her ride. And as the troubadours notice him, they start singing.

“That guy has an UMBRELLA!”
“No, really he’s got an UMBRELLA!”
“And it’s not even raining!”

And the sun bursts out, so dramatically it should have had an overlay of intense color, as they sing the next line, without pause. The timing is simultaneous, the sun and the words, and the effect was priceless


Today was not a sunshine day. Today was a pensive day with prayers said too late and love stretched, of pretend-beautiful music and a long service, of forced church attendance and tight shoes.

I want someone to bring the sunshine to you, doll.


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