Dance I Would. Dance I Won't.

My Umbrella Knows Not

This umbrella won’t keep me warm and dry today, but I’ll hold it anyhow. It gives me comfort, somehow, to have the cold metal under my fingers, fogging with my warm breath as I hold it near. My feet bravely embark upon the puddles shimmering in the street lights, and there they splash the water already troubled by drop after drop of rain. I love the way it looks when my shoe steps there. I love to count the rings that expand from the tiny impact. I love to see how the circles distort when I move. I would love to stay there, bathing in the warm glow of the street light, shivering in the cold blanket of the February rain, and dance. The rings make the best patterns when you dance, and dance I would, like a child in the rain, playing in puddles. Dance I would were it not for the voice of my mother in the back of my head, telling me I’ll catch pneumonia, or some other catastrophic disease with letters you don’t pronounce. Dance I would, were I not holding an umbrella, pretending it kept me warm and dry. Dance I would, were I not myself. Dance I would.

Dance I won’t. I’ll walk on instead, glancing between my black clad feet to see the circles that my shoes make when they move. I can see myself looking back, haloed by the umbrella above my head. It makes for a romantic silhouette, the umbrella does. In the blue night I am outlined by the gold of the street light; the umbrella a black shadow above me, my slender body curved beneath it. When I look at my shadow, I can pretend I am a lover, standing in the streets of a romantic city, like Paris, or New York, or London. He will come, I know it. He will come splashing through the streets that have turned into rivers in the time of his absence. His head will be turned down, his collar will be turned up. He will be looking at the circles his feet make in the puddles, but he won’t be counting the rings. He will be counting the steps he must yet take until he might see my slender golden silhouette, poised beneath the street lamp, waiting for him. There I would wait until the streets turn from rivers to lakes, and from lakes to seas, and from seas to oceans. And there we might drown, me and my umbrella. It doesn’t really keep me warm and dry anyway. But I won’t drown. He will come.

If he doesn’t come, I might cry. Although no one would know, because a shadow cannot cry. I would remain a stoic silhouette, never flinching, never budging. I might weep. But no one would ever know, because this umbrella does not keep my face dry. You would not be able to see the tears, because what difference is there between rain and tears, but for the salt that whets my lips? And no one but I will taste it, until he comes. And then he will drink in the ocean that pools on my tender lips, chapping in the cold, waiting for him to come. And wait I would. Wait I would were it not for the places I must go, and the places I came from. Wait I would, were it not for the people calling my name. Wait I would, were you a really coming. Wait I would.

Wait I will not. I will continue on, letting my feet make circles as I walk in a line. As I walk, the rain falls faster. My umbrella does an even worse job of keeping me dry, but I don’t mind, because I love the way it sounds above me. It sounds like feet stomping. It sounds like drummers pounding. It sounds like lungs breathing. It sounds like hearts beating. In all its sadness, it sounds like life, and I forget what that sounds like sometimes. Life sounds like rain beating on an umbrella. Life sounds like gentle footsteps, disturbing a wet leaf. Life sounds like branches bearing the weight of a thousand tears from the sky. That’s what life sounds like. But to live it, what does that feel like?

The rain does not give me answers, it only gives me chills and a quiet tune to which I could dance, but don’t. Rain does not tell me where to go, nor does it tell me where I’ve been, it simply asks me why I am here, right now, right now, right now. Right now the circle in the puddle grows. Right now my shoes leave their mark. Right now I breathe. Right now I live. Right now, I forget that that I said I would wait as a delicate silhouette in blue and gold under the street lamp that doesn’t cast out as much warmth as I would want it to. Right now I travel on to the beat of a tune to which my life is the only harmony.

I count the steps I have yet to take until I reach a place I do not yet know. When will I know? I ask the rain. But the rain does not give me answers, it just tells me to dance to the quiet tune in my ear. Dance I would. Dance I would, were I not.
Right now, he sits smoking a cigarette. He is not waiting for me. Had I waited for him, no steps would have been taken, no steps would have been counted. He does not have an umbrella. He sits, content, watching the way the smoke is punctuated by the rain. I watch the way my breath is punctuated by the sound of a heart beating. I do not think he hears it, but I do not know how.

I find I do not know much at all. The rain does not give me answers. It only gives me chills, and my umbrella does not keep me warm. Somehow there you sit, smoking in the rain, and I shiver more than you do. Who told me that an umbrella would keep me dry? Who told me that I could stop rain and sadness from pounding on my head? Who told me that I could control the trembling of my hands, and the shifting of my feet, and the beating of my heart?

Today I will risk death at the hands of a letter you do not pronounce. Is it not better to be killed by the silent ‘p’ than by silence itself? Were it not for the rain, where would be the music that sounds like feet stomping, and drummers pounding, and lungs breathing, and hearts beating? Were it not for the rain, how would I know what life sounds like? I forget what that sounds like sometimes. Today I will remember.

The rain will turn the streets to rivers, and the rivers to lakes, and the lakes to seas, and the seas to oceans. We might drown, but not me and my umbrella. We’ll let the umbrella take care of someone else for once.