You have a whole machine that folds the sky away. You press one button and it jumps open, this big black wing over your head, and you don't even look up. Not once.
I used to think umbrellas were for spinning. For tipping back so the rain drummed right over your face and rolled off the edges like a little roof-waterfall you built yourself. Do you remember running under one and feeling like the only dry person in the world? Like you had a secret?
Now you hold it low over your shoulder and walk fast and stare at the puddles so you don't step in them. You step around every single one. All of them.
There is a puddle by the corner right now. It has the whole gray sky inside it and the streetlight too, wobbling, like a door to somewhere. You looked at it and you frowned. You were worried about your socks.
I still have my rain boots. Do you have grown-up boots, the good kind, the kind that could jump in anything?
Then jump in it. Just once. I'm not asking for a puddle-hunt, or a spin, or the waterfall trick. Just one jump. And then look up, all the way up, at the underside of your folding sky, and tell me you still know how lucky it is to be dry and warm inside a little wing you carry with your own hand.