One morning Matchstick Man (hereinafter referred to as MM) awoke to find the rain pouring down in sullen sheets, and the wind gusting playfully with the trees. The sky was dark and puffy with clouds that promised to hang around all day until something better came along. “Hmm,” MM mused “looks like it’s an umbrella day”, and he beamed a smile of simple joy.
MM loved his umbrella with its delicate silver spokes, its solid wooden handle, and clear plastic cover that the rain drizzled down in glistening streaks, like snail trails but without the goo. He loved it when it rained and he could take it out of its special place in the under-stairs cupboard, carry it carefully to the door, waiting until he was outside to open it (he’s a little superstitious that way). He would always open the umbrella slowly, list
ening to the familiar creaks and moans of the plastic stretching from its sleeping position. Afterwards he would carefully dry each section, and let it rest for a while before closing it up and placing it back in its home. Oh yes, MM had something of a love affair with his umbrella; it was his most prized possession.Today was no exception. He felt the creeping rise of glee as he clasped the umbrella in his hand, the wooden handle cool against his fingers. He was almost hysterical by the time he reached the door and stepped outside. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so caught up in his own excitement he would have seen the warning signs, but he was, so he didn’t.
The rain made a harsh drumming noise on the umbrella as it beat down and down. The wind was in an angry, vicious mood, as Matchstick Mum would say it had ‘the devil in it’, 
and it blew and battered against the umbrella creating a wall of air so hard that MM was finding it difficult to walk. ‘No matter’, he thought, ‘for I am surely stronger than the wind’. On and on he walked struggling against the weather, the wind blowing harder and harder against him. He held onto the umbrella tightly though the smooth wooden handle began to slip in his hands. Then, all of a sudden, the wind sneaked under the umbrella, and with a sudden tweak lifted it easily from his hands.
and it blew and battered against the umbrella creating a wall of air so hard that MM was finding it difficult to walk. ‘No matter’, he thought, ‘for I am surely stronger than the wind’. On and on he walked struggling against the weather, the wind blowing harder and harder against him. He held onto the umbrella tightly though the smooth wooden handle began to slip in his hands. Then, all of a sudden, the wind sneaked under the umbrella, and with a sudden tweak lifted it easily from his hands. MM shouted out in horror “Noooooooo!” as the sneaky thieving wind slipped his most precious possession up and up, and out of view. He was so dumbfounded with disbelief that he could make no attempt to chase after it, he just stood there, empty handed and bereft. He felt like crying. He waited, searching the sky, hoping that the wind would change its mind and bring the umbrella back, but it didn’t. Without the umbrella the rain drummed down on him like thousands of tiny fingers, sharp and cool against his skin. The wind was soft against his face, like the stroke of a soothing hand consoling him. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced for some time. The rain flooded him with memories, of days spent running through the trees, climbing hills, splashing through rivers with his friends, and he felt a happiness far greater than that the umbrella had given him. “Thank you wind.” he whispered, and walked on, a smile beaming on his face, just a man and the rain and the wind, at peace with each other.
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