#13 – The Umbrellas

How silly this place is. I think I’m rather tired of it.

People laugh and dance all day. We eat chocolates for dinner. Birthdays are celebrated hourly. The children wear only the brightest colors, ask only the most darling questions, and never, ever cry.

Small birds sit on the windowsill in the morning, waiting until you’re ready to get out of bed. And then they actually help you dress. They whistle a crude tune, vaguely identifiable but slightly off— flat or sharp I’m not sure—and lift your clothes with their little talons to help you. My God, sometimes I’d like to dress myself, you know? God forbid I dressed myself.

It never just rains. It rains confetti (which, by the way, is an absolute mess to clean), or soap bubbles, or warm chamomile tea. Do you know it rained red umbrellas once? They floated down from the sky, handles swinging back and forth, carapaces settling in licorice branches. I felt like I was being mocked.

Our fountain spurts candy. Real candy. We have gumdrop streets and taffy houses. Our windows are made of sugar, which is terribly annoying. They break constantly. The children suck on the shards.

The sun smiles. In the morning he bounces (bounces!) up into the sky, turns around, and opens a big, flaming grin.

I want to have a bad day. I so desperately want to have a bad day. A day without singing and dancing and laughing.

My red umbrella sits by the door, waiting for the rain.

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