Like the art of tying knots or the art of cooking or origami or ikebana or weaving or, you name it, the art of staying dry evades me.
On the bus, I pick the seat beneath a dripping seam. In a cab, my window is broken, won’t roll up. My bicycle lacks fenders.
Saturation is my destiny.
I am drawn here nearly every wet season, to this place that invented the temporary downpour, where 4:00 is synonymous with rain. Without fail, I am soaked to my socks. Without fail, I fail to stay dry.
I have watched an entire futbol team fold into a shiny blue tarp as Sadako creased more than 1,000 washi cranes.
In small instances like these, my insufficient floral umbrella reminds me of chiyogami. And it is approximately as strong as a parasol in confronting this weather.
