A rainy Tuesday afternoon

I carry my late grandad’s umbrella. It’s not the best umbrella and it’s a bit worn out, but I still like it. I don’t think he used it much—perhaps not even at all. He was a farmer, you see, in rural South Korea. A man of charisma and authority, not the kind to use an umbrella. Rain is good for crops anyway.

Mum brought the umbrella back to New Zealand after he passed away. In his last days, he wasn’t the man I knew and grew up with. Although at times, when he had the stamina, he’d show off his memory and humor.

I think of him as the greatest male figure in my life. To outsiders, he may have seemed like a tough man, but to us—me, my brother, and my mum—he was very tender and delicate. Once, he bought me a set of hairpins, ornamental and pretty. The sting and sadness I feel as I think about this is a testament to the love I have for him. Heartache is just another facet of love.

I love carrying my grandpa’s umbrella that he probably didn’t even use. I use it often because it rains a lot in Auckland. It’s funny—he’s gone, and here I am, writing about his umbrella two years later, on a mundane and rainy Tuesday afternoon.

“You’re gonna live forever in me,” the song goes in my ear, coincidentally, as I write this.

I’ll probably use this umbrella for a while, maybe even until it breaks completely. It’s raining again today. It’s cold, and I’m probably vitamin D deficient by now. At least I get to carry this umbrella around when it rains.