March 16, 2 p.m.

For the millionth time this week
almost frozen rain splats
against the windshield of my car
And even though I lucked into
the last spot in the school pickup line
I am one big petulant scowl, smoldering
as I wait for the bell to ring
I hate that rain
Then someone’s little brother, no more
than two or three, marches past the line of
minivans up to the schoolyard gate
He carries a red umbrella almost bigger than
he is and he’s holding it up in a valiant
proud grownup way
And the rain is letting up a bit
A slim tween girl walks toward me
serene beneath a rainbow-
sherbet-polka-dot umbrella
and I notice she isn’t holding
the umbrella, it seems to hover above her
Then I realize she’s balancing it on her head
juking this way or that to keep it aloft
And now the rain is softer and
so am I