An umbrella

My grandmother’s umbrella; borrowed years ago from my mother’s porch, and never returned.  

There is festival mud rubbed into the silk, the ferrule is cracked, and its joints are held together with blue thread; but its perfect, black bat-wing angular arc keeps us dry.

I remember my sister and I dithering along behind my grandmother, the brolly's brass tip tapping the ground as she strode to the brow of the road by her house. She farted mid-stride and the two of us fell about; but she ignored it.  

I saw her last on the top floor of the hospital, high above London, her ice-cream hair backlit by grey window-light; she wore a flowery nightdress, which hung slightly open at the chest. She could not speak, but squeezed my hand with her three good fingers, and pointed to the door, exhaling sharply, gesturing with her breath. It was time to go.