Ladybug Umbrella
Skye Freeman
When I was eight years old my parents gifted me a matching ladybug raincoat, umbrella, and boots. We kept it at our old cottage in Michigan, so that when we’d visit on weekends in the spring, it’d be waiting for me.
Graphic by Catleen Balaoing
On rainy Sunday mornings, as my parents lounged in the family room, enjoying coffee, reading the newspaper, and listening to the jazzy melodies of Ella and Louis, I’d wiggle into my ladybug raincoat, stomp my ladybug boots on, grab my ladybug umbrella, and march out the front door into the rain.
Wandering around the cottage, umbrella in hand, I was transported to another world as I followed the winding stone paths shrouded with ferns and lily of the valley. Making my way around back I’d find myself on the patio, where the koi pond was. When it’d rain, the koi would huddle at the bottom of the pond, laying on the rocks and nestled in corners, next to the croaking frogs. The rain drops made ripples on the surface of the pond, the motion startling the speckled frogs, who’d leap into the water and dart under the lily pads.
The cottage only occupied a little section of the one-acre property. The rest was home to our firepit, the garage with our grill out back, a little bit of lawn, and forest. In the very back was my swingset. On sunny days I’d spend hours swinging on it each day, closing my eyes while facing upwards; the sun’s rays, peaking through the trees, would pass through my eyelids, creating glowing, dancing shapes of scattered light amidst the darkness.
However, as an experienced rainy day wanderer, I knew swinging would not be optimal but instead leave me shivering and wet. Thus, if the coast was clear, I’d step off the path and into the woods, where I was more sheltered from the rain, and further from the noise of my parents’ music and chatter leaking through the screened windows.
Every step I’d make on the forest floor bore nature’s own music, of sticks snapping, acorns crushing, crunchy leaves hidden under the wet ones. Once far enough away to feel alone in the first, I’d stop and listen and exist with nature. Breathing in and out of my nose, feeling the morning chill on my little legs, hearing the rain pattering on the canopy of leaves above.
Upon returning from my journey I’d be welcomed by the smell of pancakes, freshly brewed coffee, and the warmth of my parent’s “welcome back”. My ladybug boots would be splattered with mud, my ladybug raincoat unbuttoned, my ladybug umbrella dripping wet, and my face beaming with content.
