Under the Pink Umbrella

And then, a large man holding up a pink umbrella stood peering amicably at me. It wasn’t only the sky that was raining.

Tears poured down my eyes, wetting my soul and dampening my spirits. He had seen it all, he knew it all. He had heard the first cries of disbelief, followed by my mom’s shout out for dad. The sound of chairs moving as my parents made me sit and talk. The hushed voices in a whispered conversation, for they were embarrassed to talk out loud about it even inside our own little house.

He had seen it all. The look on my father’s face go from happy and unsuspecting to one of anger and embarrassment. He had seen his eyes darken and the first seeds of hatred being sown. He had seen my mother take me to my room and give me a skirt and a blouse to change back to.

That was the day I had chosen to tell my parents that I was in love with a girl who, unfortunately for me, was straight, and for whom, I had begun dressing up as a boy. As I saw their expressions change and heard their voices rise, I had felt something leave me. Something which was very much a part of me. A part that suddenly hurt too much.

When I saw him looking at me, I knew what had left me. He was the manifestation of my soul, of the person I really was. He was the being trapped inside this feminine body. And now, he was gone. For how long or how far, I don’t know. He left in his place a raging void that yearns for love and acceptance.
He was the man under the pink umbrella.
He was me. 


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