Propped against the house, the umbrella waited.

When the rain began to cease, it watched with disdain as people began to emerge from their houses, walking down the street and basking in the newfound warmth of a dripping-butter Sun.

When night began to draw in, and a pale moon rose above Long Island, the smiley faces still smiled, and the silky black canvass clung to the moisture the summers day had not managed to evaporate away.

When It happened, under the secretive folds of night’s cloak, the umbrella did not change, did not move, and did not know.

When the Sun was high over Long Island once more, everybody was still sleeping and the world was ending.

Propped against the house, the umbrella waited.