What We Carry, What We Leave Behind

When I moved from the city, I left my umbrella with the night manager.

He called out as I ran after my taxi, “But won’t it rain there?”

It has rained.

I have never used an umbrella since I left that apartment.

Not all the things we take with us are physical.

Often our characters, in life and fiction, start their stories with the big move or the radical event that forever changes everything about them.

I have always wondered at those changes.

The past is not as easy to discard as an umbrella.

We leave pieces of ourselves with every person, every place that we have traveled.

We carry always the sound of rain against a window in winter.

IMG_0637A sound and a morning carried


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