The Lost Umbrella

A mistake to be discarded became a treasure worth a lifetime

         I stare at all the boxes and trunks with a sigh.

         So much work to do—

         “Yay! Treasure hunting!”

         I’m nearly knocked off my feet as my energetic five-year-old dashes past and dives into one of the many cardboard boxes filled with... well, junk. Or rather, the things Mom—and Dad, by extension—had stored over the years.

         “Be careful, Eddie, sweetie,” I call out absently, knowing full well he won’t listen.

         Might as well let him enjoy himself, as long as he doesn’t get hurt.

         “Remember, Mommy’s here to clean out this place, so try not to make too much of a mess, okay?”

         “Okay!”

         He vanishes behind a pile of trunks—which, once cleaned up, might actually fetch a good price at a garage sale—and I get to work, pausing just long enough to open the lone circular window and let in some fresh air.

         Ah, the memories.

         This attic was my favourite part of the house as a child. Sure, Mom and Dad used it for storage even then, but they’d left just enough space for me to turn it into my personal studio. When I left for college and eventually moved out, my private sanctuary disappeared under a mountain of forgotten things.

         Wow... this antique vase might even do well at auction...

         “Cool!” Eddie cries out, followed by a crash.

         “Eddie! Are you all right?” I rush toward him in panic, abandoning my find.

         I brace myself for the worst but instead find him sitting in a pile of toys, books, and other kid-friendly treasures that practically scream me from decades ago.

         Good grief, Mom really did keep everything.

         “Can I keep this one, Mom?” he asks, holding up a dusty replica of a model airplane. One wing’s bent and a wheel is missing, but nothing Doug—my husband—can’t fix.

         “Sure, sweetheart.”

         “Awesome! I’m gonna show Dad!”

         Like a bolt of lightning, he’s gone, leaving me alone with the flood of memories. I sink to my knees and start digging through the rest of the wooden trunk.

         Schoolbooks and report cards—turns out I wasn’t such a bad student after all—crayon and pencil drawings perfect for the fridge, trophies from science fairs and track meets... and oh, look! My old white skates now frayed and scuffed, their blades dulled by time.

         I should donate all this to charity, I muse, about to close the trunk—until I see something sticking out from the very corner.

         No. It can’t be.

         My heart pounds as I push aside everything else, hands trembling. I gasp when I feel the familiar plastic, and tears well in my eyes as I pull it free.

         After nearly thirty-five years, it’s back in my hands.

         The handle is still bright yellow, though chipped and worn. The shaft is slightly crooked, but it leads to the runner that—without realizing—my fingers instinctively push open. Despite a bent stretcher, the canopy unfurls.

         Yellow on the outside ordinary. But inside? The little ducks in yellow raincoats and boots still march in their never-ending circle.

         “Bit strange, the design,” Mom had said when she gave it to me for my sixth birthday. “Mr. Bensen said the duckies were supposed to be on the outside, but they botched it. He was going to throw it out, but I said, ‘I know a little angel who’d love it.’”

And she was right.

         I loved that umbrella so much I carried it everywhere—rain or shine, winter or summer. It made me feel seen, protected. So, when it was stolen in fifth grade, I was devastated.

         I still remember sobbing in Miss Grady’s arms as the class searched the school. Nothing Mom said could comfort me.

         “It’s just an umbrella, sweetheart,” she tried. “I can get you one just like it—well, not exactly the same, but close enough—”

         No, no, no! Didn’t she understand? It wasn’t just any umbrella. Even she had said it was special; a one-of-a-kind mistake saved just for me.

         “Sometimes you just have to let things be, honey,” she whispered that night—after a month of mourning. “It’s always hard to lose something precious. And yes, it’ll take time. But learning to let go is part of growing up.”

         Maybe it was silly to be so attached to a duckie umbrella, but for me, it meant belonging. I was always the quiet, nerdy kid—an outsider. But that day I walked in with my funny umbrella, people saw me. It shielded me from the elements, and somehow, opened the world to me as well.

         “You never stopped looking for it, did you?” I whisper, as a tear splashes onto my hand. “I just wish you’d told me how or where you found it, Mom. God, I miss you and Dad so much.”

         I don’t bother wiping my tears. I fold the umbrella carefully and place it back in the trunk.

         I’ll take it to a repair shop—make it good as new. Eddie’s going to love it.

         After all, he does have a thing for rubber duckies.

         Hmm… reminds me of someone I know.




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Word Count: 854
Prompt: Please write a story or poem that has the title: "The Lost Umbrella"
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp"