My twelve-year-old son gave away the final gift his father, Darren, had ever bought for him, and three mornings later, forty-seven opened umbrellas appeared across our front lawn.<\/p>\n
It began the previous week, when Eli walked through the door completely soaked.<\/p>\n
I had answered the front door with a dish towel slung over my shoulder, already irritated because the pharmacy had called once more about a prescription still listed under my late husband\u2019s name.<\/p>\n
Then I looked at my son.<\/p>\n
Water ran from his hair. His shirt was plastered to him, and his lips were quivering.<\/p>\n
\u201cEli,\u201d I said, pulling him inside. \u201cWhere\u2019s your umbrella, baby?\u201d<\/p>\n
He met my eyes, and my stomach clenched.<\/p>\n
I prayed it was not the blue one. Please, not the blue one.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s gone, Mom,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n
The blue umbrella had never been costly. It had a wooden handle, a sticky silver button, and Darren\u2019s slanted handwriting written inside the strap because Eli used to misplace everything when he was small.<\/p>\n
But that umbrella, he never misplaced.<\/p>\n
Darren had bought it for him two months before the sickness took him from us. From then on, Eli brought it everywhere.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean, gone?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Eli gulped. \u201cSorry, Mom. I gave it to someone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou gave it away? What about\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
His chin lowered.<\/p>\n
For a brief moment, I was not gentle. I was not proud. I was only an exhausted widow staring at one more empty place where my husband used to exist.<\/p>\n
\u201cEli, that was from your dad.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why would you give it away?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere was a lady at the bus stop,\u201d he said quickly. \u201cShe was pregnant, Mom. Really pregnant. She was crying, and her coat was soaked, and nobody was helping her.\u201d<\/p>\n
I could only stare at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you gave her your jacket too?\u201d<\/p>\n
He glanced down at his damp shirt. \u201cShe was cold, too. And she had to worry about herself and the baby. If I got sick, you\u2019d make me soup, and I\u2019d be fine.\u201d<\/p>\n
I lifted my fingers to my mouth. How was I supposed to stay angry?<\/p>\n
\u201cEli\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t want to lose it,\u201d he said. \u201cI promise. But Dad always said you don\u2019t wait to help.\u201d<\/p>\n
Darren had said that constantly. When a neighbor\u2019s car refused to start. When someone spilled a bag of groceries. Even when we were already running behind.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t wait to help someone in need, Carina.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wrapped Eli tightly in my arms.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour dad would be proud of you,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
He went still. \u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n
That almost shattered me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m proud of you too.\u201d<\/p>\n
I helped him change into dry clothes and made him hot cocoa with far too many marshmallows. He sat at the kitchen table, his hands curled around the mug.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think she\u2019ll bring it back?\u201d he asked. \u201cI told her where we live.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know, hon. But maybe she\u2019ll surprise us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe,\u201d he said softly.<\/p>\n
That night, after Eli had gone to sleep, I touched the empty hook beside the door. It had once held Darren\u2019s keys, his hat, his coat, and after he passed, Eli\u2019s umbrella.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know you\u2019d be proud of him,\u201d I whispered. \u201cBut I still wanted that umbrella to come home.\u201d<\/p>\n
Three mornings later, I opened the front door to get the newspaper and dropped my coffee mug. It smashed against the porch.<\/p>\n
Hot coffee splashed onto my ankle, but I barely noticed.<\/p>\n
All I could see was my yard, filled with open umbrellas.<\/p>\n
Forty-seven of them.<\/p>\n
They were arranged in neat rows from the mailbox all the way to the maple tree. Beneath every umbrella sat a small white box with a number painted across the lid.<\/p>\n
Numbered 1 to 47.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom?\u201d Eli called behind me.<\/p>\n
He stepped onto the porch barefoot, his hair sticking up in every direction.<\/p>\n
\u201cWatch!\u201d I warned. \u201cI dropped my mug. Don\u2019t step on the glass.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy is Mrs. Sarah filming us, Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n
That pulled me fully awake.<\/p>\n
Several neighbors had gathered near the sidewalk, many of them holding up their phones.<\/p>\n
\u201cSarah!\u201d I called. \u201cPut the phone down! You know I don\u2019t like Eli being filmed.\u201d<\/p>\n
She lowered it only halfway. \u201cCarina, it\u2019s beautiful! Didn\u2019t you see Facebook?\u201d<\/p>\n
My stomach twisted. \u201cWhat\u2019s on Facebook?\u201d<\/p>\n
A man from two houses away called out, \u201cCarina, Eli\u2019s famous!\u201d<\/p>\n
My son shifted behind me.<\/p>\n
I moved directly in front of him. \u201cEverybody put your phones down. Now! He\u2019s a child.\u201d<\/p>\n
A few faces flushed with embarrassment. Others lowered their phones slowly.<\/p>\n
I stepped onto the damp grass, my robe dragging around my ankles. Eli kept close to my side.<\/p>\n
My twelve-year-old son arrived home drenched after handing his late father\u2019s umbrella to a pregnant stranger caught in the rain. I thought I should be upset\u2014until the following morning, when our yard filled with...<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-989","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\n