It reminded of a morning when I woke and turned at the window behind, dawn, and down at something light, pretty. It took me a while to realise in a murky room that it was an umbrella, messily folded, painted in the pale of yellow. I flickered my eyes, because you see nice things in dream, but when you’re awake, they’ll be gone. But this was still there, laying unmoved from the window foot. Unsure if my eyes were playing up or I was too little to dare touch things that aren’t mine, taught as kids by teachers in class pointing out. Yet I was there, looking at it, awe stricken, not touching and admiring from where I slept when my dad came and picked it up. I turned back in the bed to look at him.
‘How did you like the umbrella?’, he asked.
‘Is this ours?’, I enquired in doubt.
‘Certainly is. Did you like it? Is the colour yellow good?’
I got up in the bed taking it from his hand, checking it out, opens – closes.
‘Is this for me?’
‘Nice’, I said but as a matter of fact, I had found it crazy.
Three folded umbrellas were a trend then and at the thought of taking it to school excited me just as much.
It was only an umbrella, but having my dad stand before me who managed to place it by my side while I was asleep, and wanted to see how would react to it turned that morning an everlasting. Everlasting how your first love is, it must the same with first surprise too.