THE UMBRELLA
The shade cast a shadow across her face.
She blinked.
Her eyes were slightly hidden behind the fall of her hair.
She looked from beneath her lashes, waiting for them to adjust to the light.
The umbrella shifted slightly in her hand.
There was someone standing in the distance.
She couldn't see his face. Only the outline of him against the horizon.
She didn’t know him.
The sun was warm on the back of her hand where it rested around the handle.
She looked down at her fingers.
They looked almost unfamiliar in the light.
She rubbed her thumb slowly across the side of her index finger, noticing the small roughness of the skin there.
When did she develop calluses?
She turned her hand over.
Her skin was dry and chapped from years of hard work. There were small lines she didn't remember. A faint mark near the base of her thumb. A tiny scar she couldn't remember getting. Dark spots from the hot oil that had scalded her skin when she was rushing to get lunch on.
It was strange, the things a person stopped noticing when they belonged to them.
The wind moved against her sleeve. The cold had settled into her fingers.
Her brow furrowed as she bit her bottom lip, a habit she had when she was worried about something.
She adjusted the umbrella in her hand.
She pulled her jacket tighter around her. The buttons were missing, and it was a size too small for her anyway. Something she had bought at a thrift store because the color made her smile.
She looked down at the sleeve.
A thread had come loose from the hem.
She caught it between two fingers.
For a moment, she thought about pulling it free.
Instead, she wound it once around her finger and tried to get it to knot.
She had always done that.
Or had she?
She frowned again.
She couldn't remember.
The thread slipped loose.
She let it fall. She frowned again.
The wind moved through her hair, lifting it away from her face for a moment before letting it fall back again.
The umbrella tilted slightly as the wind caught it.
She corrected it without looking up.
She looked towards the figure.
Perhaps it was the distance.
Some things were easier to see from there.
Safer.
Or perhaps it was because she had spent too long looking at things from too close.
When you are close to something, you learn its details.
The small gestures.
The pauses.
The eyes. They often said more.
How odd.
The things that are said without being said.
The silence.
You begin to know the sound of someone's footsteps before they enter the room.
You know when a door is going to close harder than it should.
You learn which questions are safe to ask.
And which ones aren't.
Because you need to feel safe.
Safe.
There was that word again.
You also learn to make excuses.
Not all at once.
It happens slowly.
A little at a time.
A sentence you decide not to answer.
A feeling you decide isn't worth mentioning.
A thing that bothers you, but not enough to make a fuss about.
Then another.
And another.
And your world spins.
Until one day you realise you have become very good at being quiet.
Quiet is safe.
Quiet is armor.
Her fingers found the loose thread again.
It was still there.
Such a small thing.
Almost nothing.
And yet, once you notice it, you can't quite stop noticing it.
There are things people need.
Things they are willing to endure while they need them.
That was not weakness.
At least, she didn't think it was.
Needing was a human thing.
Everyone needed something.
A hand.
A word.
A little time.
A little patience.
Sometimes something more practical.
And there was nothing shameful about that.
The shame came from somewhere else.
From the way someone could look at you when they knew you needed them.
From the pause before they answered.
From the reminder that they could say no.
From the way gratitude could be demanded before anything had even been given.
She looked down at the thread.
It was still hanging from the sleeve.
She tugged at it gently.
It tightened around the weave.
She stopped.
Perhaps some things were better left alone.
The thought made her smile, though she wasn't sure why.
She hadn't meant to smile.
The sun had moved slightly.
The shadow across her face had shifted.
She could feel the warmth now along her cheek.
She closed her eyes for a moment.
The umbrella remained steady above her.
She gripped the handle tight, a need to feel in control, like she was still here.
She took a deep breath and stilled her thoughts.
There had been a time when she thought endurance was the same thing as strength.
Perhaps everyone thought that at some point.
You endure because you can.
Because you must.
Because to do otherwise would mean to break.
And breaking would mean trying to piece yourself back together.
Piece by piece.
Carefully.
Like fine china.
The kind you are afraid to touch after it has been broken.
The kind you keep because you cannot bear to throw it away.
You stay because leaving would cost too much.
You accept because the alternative is worse.
And after a while, you stop asking yourself whether you should have to.
You simply become grateful that you managed to get through another day.
She opened her eyes.
The figure was still there.
Still too far away to see his face.
She wondered if he was watching her too.
Perhaps he was.
Perhaps he wasn't.
It no longer mattered.
That surprised her.
For so long, so much had depended on what another person thought.
Whether they were pleased.
Whether they were angry.
Whether they would help.
Whether they would stay.
Whether they would give.
Whether they would take.
She looked at her hand again.
The thread had caught around her finger.
She pulled it gently until it came free.
It was free.
She was free.
It left a faint red mark around the skin.
She rubbed it away with her thumb.
There was no pain.
Only the impression of something that had been there.
The wind had changed.
It was warmer now.
The umbrella moved slightly in her hand.
She tightened her grip.
She looked back towards the horizon.
He was still there.
Still only a silhouette.
She wondered if he knew how much distance there was between them.
Not the distance she could see.
The other kind.
The kind that grows quietly.
The kind that begins with a question you are afraid to ask.
The kind that begins long before you realise you are afraid.
The kind that remains even after the question no longer matters.
The light had changed again.
The horizon was no longer so stark.
She could see the shape of him more clearly now.
The shoulders.
The outline of his head.
The way he stood with his hands at his sides.
For a moment, she thought she remembered those hands.
Then she wasn't sure.
She looked away.
Perhaps that was the thing about distance.
Eventually, you stop needing to know what was real.
You only need to know what it made you become.
Her fingers moved to the hem of her sleeve.
There was another thread coming loose.
She saw it.
And this time, she left it there.
© Lyia Meta
For You by Lyia Meta
Words and music by Denise Dimin Produced by Bob McGilpin
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