How I saved an umbrella – and will never give it away again

Ten years ago I came home without the beautiful, handy and, above all, expensive little boy I had brought to school that morning. Once more. Then my parents lifted the lid.

From now on there was a ban on umbrellas:

I have adhered to this ban for years. Even after I had long since left home. By chance, I came into possession of a very special umbrella.

This is his story.

It’s autumn 2019. My future umbrella is in the window of a chic shop, watching the hustle and bustle on Bahnhofstrasse. It rains. The lights of the trams fade behind the window.

He dreams of an exciting life, outside, in the fresh air. He wants to be carried through cities, villages, forests, over mountains. See the world. And wonders if he will finally meet his new owner today.

At that moment, a man in a suit runs past his shop window. He pulled his coat over his head so the rain wouldn’t ruin his hairstyle. Out of the corner of his eye he sees my future umbrella. He stops, takes a few steps back, looks intently at the umbrella and then enters the store.

He doesn’t look at the price. He doesn’t even remove his white headphones from his ears for the quick transaction. He likes the pattern of the umbrella. It looks stylish. By brand. And the umbrella has a button that allows it to be opened and closed automatically. That’s enough. So the suit guy buys my future umbrella.

There are no forests, no villages, no mountains waiting for my future umbrella. Not even hills. Just a gray, wet life in Zurich. He only gets out into the fresh air for five minutes a day, when the pack carrier walks from his apartment to the tram stop.

My future umbrella got the wrong owner.

But that should change in a few weeks. Exceptionally, the wearer of the suit must travel by train for business purposes. Just like me. It is raining in Zurich when we board and sit in the same compartment. The suit wearer carelessly throws the wet umbrella on the ground next to his polished leather shoes.

The train leaves. Lake Zurich passes us by. Slowly but surely the rain dries up and the sun shines through. As we enter the next train station, the man in the suit jumps up from his seat and runs to the door. He leaves his umbrella behind.

I pick it up and run after the man in the suit, hoping he doesn’t lose his umbrella. After all, I know the pain. The shame!

I caught up with him just before he could get off the train. I tap him on the shoulder. He turns to me, irritated. I hear soft music from his headphones.

“You forgot your umbrella,” I say smiling and immediately want to hand him the umbrella. But the man in the suit mumbles something incomprehensible, shakes the shoulder I touched in disgust as if I had just begged him for money, and steps out in two quick steps.

I stand in the door of the train, perplexed. The umbrella still in his hand. And get angry.

I just wanted to be nice. Did I look that dirty in my damp hoodie? And defiantly like a child I say to myself:

Since then, my umbrella has been allowed to accompany me through cities, villages, forests and over hills. He is now free. Cheerful. At least that’s what I imagine.

And today I can go out with a coat and umbrella just like normal adults. No more dirty raincoats.

I have never lost or forgotten my umbrella anywhere. Probably because he got to know me through his story. Or because I still have a lot of hatred for the man who wears a suit.

That’s why I left my scarf on the train last week. You can’t have everything.