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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() that evening, we were standing at an abandoned gas station; the sky had flicked blush at the horizon, painting it dusty rose, with highlighted salmon clouds. while you stood taking photographs for your instagram aesthetics, i suppose that is when i first saw the umbrella girl. weirdly enough, her hat was blood red, almost obnoxiously so. her umbrella, boots and raincoat were a matching pair, glossy and black, like her devious eyes. it wasn't raining, nor hot, so i had always wondered about the purpose of her signature prop. she stood there, her hands posed perfectly around its handle, umbrella placed tastefully over her shoulder. head tilted just so- poised, a doll- those flashing eyes and half smile, like you were the only one in on an inside joke. the setting sun left blush crumbling to the clear skin
of navy and starlight, hiding behind powerlines and buildings in the distance. you snapped more pictures, while the umbrella girl just stood there, watching; watching like always. when you had finished, you pocketed your phone, and smiled at me, climbing into the drivers seat. i followed in shotgun, but i never took my eyes off her, even when all she became was a black speck. i don't think she ever moved that evening, except after we left, her smile spread perhaps centimeter. like she knew something i did not. i don't think you ever saw her, or at least acknowledged her. but somehow, your lifeline irreversibly intertwined with hers. i saw her thrice more. i. when we opened our admission letters together, that afternoon on a weekend, in the park across from campus. she leaned against the tree still with the umbrella (it was a clear day), and watched with her cursed knowing smile, she watched while we cheered, sun filtering through the trees and onto our oblivious (so oblivious) laughter and light eyes, a cool wind blowing, while her eyes flicked to the blood red seal of the letter, the same shade as her rippling fedora. ii. the afternoon of graduation, i waited at the restaurant on the street corner- it was a terrible restaurant, the service average and the food not even. i stared out the window and saw your faded yellow car, saw another run the red light, saw it slam into you, she was there as the paramedics loaded you in, as i cried for you to be alright, her smile was still ever so prim (after that, i hated her smile) and umbrella ever so flawless as she watched in the background, eyes timeless, like i was beginning to think she was. it rained that day. iii. at your funeral, her ebony rain attire matched our mourning clothes, as i went up to honor your memory, i glanced at her, the umbrella girl, as she stood in the corner. she tilted her head, and her half smile grew into a real smile. she bowed her head curtly towards you, paying her respects, closed her umbrella, and skipped briskly towards the exit, her red hat opposing a sea of black. i never saw her again. now when i drive up to admire salmon dusks i do think of you, but inevitably her. she, the umbrella girl, who left far too many questions in the wake of those black rainboots and that haunting smile. as the sky molts its shades of cherry and rose i will always ask the starlight things i suppose i'll never know. Comments are closed.
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September 2023
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