For their second birthdays, I buy each of my grandbabies their own special umbrella. The first, a Hungry Little Caterpillar see-though dome for my avid reader I found in the Curious George Bookstore in Harvard Square while away for work with friends. Its curved green handle had already outgrown my suitcase and the overhead bin, so I carried it home on my lap, the other mimis, nanas, nonnas, gigis, grandmas, gammas, omas and abuelas envious of me and my literary cuteness coup. Already, that was eight years and five umbrellas ago. My babies have stayed dry under sharks with knobby blue handles, held Caterpillar yellow handgrips under cement truck awnings, twirled pastel princesses and fringe-encircled unicorns. Just last week, I scored one more, another little see-through plastic dome, this time with smiley musical notes prancing above a u-shaped brown handle, perfect for dancing in the rain. Soon, my soulful search begins again, even as it ends forever. Every single umbrella matches its owner and serves its purpose for a bittersweet season, or two, if we’re lucky. So now, I intend to spend the next eighteen months coming to know this amazing new man, for it is the shape of our special bond that enables me to discover the unnamed understanding necessary to pair a precious little umbrella to his unmatchable perfect self.
Terry Shamblin Writes 