You are fighting with it again. The little spring that never quite catches, the spoke that folds the wrong way in the wind, the whole thing turning inside out on the corner by the bank while you swear at it under your breath. You will not remember the rain. You will remember that you had two hands and both of them worked, that you could grip and twist and wrestle a stubborn object into shape without a single joint complaining about it after.
Notice the sound. That drumming on the taut fabric, the world reduced to a circle of dry about the size of your shoulders, everything past the edge going silver and blurred. You are standing under a small roof you are holding up yourself. You built shelter in four seconds with your wrist. That was never nothing.
And look, you're sharing it. Whoever is beside you has tilted in, shoulder to your shoulder, both of you a little wet on the outside arm because neither will admit the umbrella is too small for two. You are annoyed about the wet sleeve.
I would give a great deal for a wet sleeve and someone leaning in to earn it.
So take your time folding it up in the doorway. Shake it out. Watch the water run off in a bright little rope onto the mat.
There is no hurry today, whatever the day is telling you.