Tin Umbrellas

This morning, I had to retire yet another tin umbrella. I watched the artisan toss it in their melting pot before handing me a new. For the first time, I gave them a tip out of pity: a quarter. Confused, they looked at me with an odd expression before throwing it into their melting pot.

An umbrella’s first walk is always its loudest. Fresh metal being pounded by old ice. Even through the caps on my ears, I could always hear the ticks.

At home, I peeled off my ear caps and examined my new tool. I ran my fingers through each fresh crater. It was then when I had deciphered my tracings.

Stippled in the metal, the word Hail.