Eight years. That is how long my umbrella and I had been together. It saw me through many a commute to downtown Chicago, and I knew after the first winter that this was an extraordinary umbrella. It never flipped inside out, when it started breaking it was always in a way that was easy to fix, and it felt solid and stable in my hand.
Last night, in a moment of carelessness, I left my umbrella, despite all its years of commitment and service, in the park. It sat there all alone, abandoned. I hope that someone who needed an umbrella picked it up and will use it despite its akward bent spoke that has to fixed each time it is opened, but I fear that this isn't what happened. I fear that it has been thrown away without regard, stuffed into a trash bin, abused and neglected.
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