The rain will come.
The storm will rage.
And mostly, we feel alone in all of it.
Being drenched in sorrow and pain, left to contract the worst pneumonia.
It is a gift to see there are umbrellas.
And people holding them.
So that we could come through the storm, a little dryer.
A little warmer.
Mostly our eyes are so flooded, our being so blinded, we grind our teeth, and brave the weather.
It is a gift to see, crunching under another’s umbrella is okay.
May you see this when the storm has broken.
May you embrace the gift of umbrellas.
They are open.
They are held.
And it is okay.
For the gift we receive alway becomes the gift we give.
Us holding umbrellas again.
In another storm.
For another soul.