Margen
In the umbrella stand by the door it waits, folded, thin as a Monday.
It only works on the worst days. No one takes it out in the sun, no one shows it off: it is loved against the grain, when the sky comes down.
Then it comes home soaked and we leave it open in the hallway, a black flower dripping on the tiles; for one night it takes up more room than anyone in this house.
By morning it is dry, thin again behind the door.
Some people love you like that: they show up when it rains and never know where to stand on sunny days.