Colorful and (barely still) mechanical, Fisher’s rainbow umbrella has so many uses. Closed, it’s a sword. Open, it’s a shield. It lifts a small child into the air when it’s windy. It doubles as a hairdryer in a pinch. He carries it around the house. He sometimes takes it to bed. He asks to take it into the, um, shower. And, it must come to the park on a sunny Sunday. To make use of its parasol properties, of course.
One busy-ish road separates the house from that school. On the trip back home, a helmeted Fisher is taking care as he navigates the cross-walk over the busy-ish street not to dislodge the umbrella carefully hung and swaying brightly from the handlebar of his scooter. A few steps ahead with Cory, Daddy looks back to watch him push along. An impatient white SUV waiting behind him peels off as soon as the way is clear.
Fisher turns his head and mutters: “That white car just can’t wait like it’s sus-posed to. That’s not nice. We can’t go any faster, though, right?.” Pause. “That white car driver is a F word.” He looks down as he giggles, continuing a careful ascent onto the sidewalk, with unflagging care not to drop the umbrella (wouldn’t want that). He mutters additional inaudible things. It dawns on Daddy that the “we” might not refer to Daddy and Cory. He might actually be talking to the rainbow umbrella itself.
Huh. At least their conversation is polite enough to stop the expletives at “the F word.” But as soon as a “my precious” or two starts drifting out of all that muttering…