The Umbrella Library

On her last afternoon at the library, Mara counted nineteen umbrellas in the lost-property cupboard. None had names. She had spent forty years returning books to their proper places; it seemed a shame to leave so many small roofs homeless.

She put a basket beside the door and wrote: BORROW ONE. BRING IT BACK WHEN YOU CAN.

By Thursday, the basket was empty. On Friday, a blue umbrella returned with a note tucked into its handle. Thank you. I reached my interview dry. Underneath, in smaller letters: I got the job.

Mara had already handed over her keys, but the new librarian let her keep a chair near the basket. She tied a blank card to each umbrella. Soon there were messages about hospital visits, first dates and a dog who refused to cross puddles. People began returning umbrellas they had never borrowed.

One November morning, Mara found a red one she recognised. She had left it on a bus twenty years earlier. Its wooden handle still bore the tiny tooth marks her daughter had made as a baby.

The attached card read: This kept my mother dry on her way to evening classes. She became a nurse. I think it is time to return it.

Mara turned the card over and wrote her daughter's telephone number. Then she crossed it out and wrote the library's.

There were nineteen umbrellas in the basket again. This time, she knew where every one belonged.