The umbrella loved walking around. The feeling of floating above everybody, awash with the warm streams of rain was inexpressible – he’d go into raptures. It was terribly boring for him to hang around on the hook, all folded up, anticipating the next rainfall. He’d be dying, literally, to spread his spokes, feel the touch of the wind on his back and imagine himself a bird.
But in San Francisco it only rained a few days a year, so most of the time he just hung there, dismally, without drawing any attention to himself.
Once, during a storm, when the wind was gusting particularly hard, the umbrella suddenly felt he might just go flying for real. His spokes turned inside out, and he suddenly realized: it’s now, or never. There was a gust, then another. His owner hung onto the handle with all his might, but . . .
“Ha-ha! Look what I can do!” the umbrella giggled, as he tore away from his old life.
The next day, dry and neatly folded up, the umbrella hung in his usual spot, looking hatefully out the window at the sunny weather: Next time – for sure!
by
translated from Russian by
Krystyna Steiger
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