I carried the umbrella with me so it wouldn’t rain.

The weather service threatened us all day, promising late morning, afternoon, evening. My phone buzzed throughout the afternoon, warning me of lightning strikes within a ten mile range—and wishing me to be safe. WeatherBug is so thoughtful!

We gathered that evening at Ballyhoo Books & Brew. The paper cup of decaf was too hot in my hand—for I had picked at the sleeve and its glue released, unfurling its grip around the cup.

The poet preached release and peace, the pain of division, of violence—the dehumanized reality present and still changeable. Through words and presence.

And then he drew our attention from this interior reflection to the downpour through that window! The rain pounded the pavement like it’s underemployed. This was God’s rain reminding us of our place.

And then as if all the words needed were said, the rain ceased.

As we dispersed, I hung back, debating. But I couldn’t not buy the book. All the signs pointed to it being “my kind” and “up my alley.” So I waited in a line moving slowly as I eavesdropped on conversations that felt so private.

As the poet signed his book for me, I felt the kindness he was offering me matched his prophetic conviction to meet people where they are. And then, as if he knew me well, he generously suggested another book for me to read. One with the same image on its cover as this one. Synchronicity! It was called Unalone by Jessica Jacobs. So I did that weird dance of typing on the phone, wishing I could just listen.

I returned the kindness, suggesting a book myself, The Persuaders. The trade of knowledge is kindness to the creative soul.

Exiting to the sidewalk with gentle eagerness, I felt the moisture falling so lightly the word “mist” sounds too heavy. And in this, there is a moment when a decision is in order. The umbrella, like Chekhov’s Gun, is intended to go off. For it did not stop the rain.

But it was also unnecessary. Silly, even. It’s only my shoes that will feel the wetness, tracking the storm’s remains to the room. An ode to the mundane things we fight over, even die for.