The Weight of a Wet Umbrella

That night, on a bus past midnight, I suddenly looked up. The streetlights outside were smeared across the rainwater, and a wet umbrella hanging from the handle beside the seat was quietly dripping. Every time the bus stopped, that sound was unusually clear. There was a night when the streetlight flickered over the stop after the bus had gone. As I walked with the umbrella folded, water dripped and dripped from it. That sound followed me to the end of the road. Those drops had nowhere to land. Listening to that sound, I don't know how long I stood there after the bus had gone. On that night when the streetlights blurred, I suddenly didn't open my umbrella. The moment the rain touched my shoulders, its sound fell into step with my walking pace. Only where the road ended did the wetness begin to dry, and for the first time then, the weight of the wet umbrella seemed light. I don't know how long I stood there after the bus had gone that day. There was a time when only the weight of a wet umbrella remained at my fingertips.