JUNE

Soon, traffic would get worse and there would be many students carrying umbrellas in different designs and colors. Mine would be a pale, black, small umbrella, figuratively. Taft Avenue would no longer be my sight for sore eyes when the rain floods its shallow street. But one could notice the mere flood inundating my eyes.

Like the rain that would never stop from falling, the tears would be my companion in the months yet to come. Would I be able to handle the stormy life I chose to live? Would the tiny umbrella save me from getting drained?

I am preparing for a separation that is for good.