Golfing at the Bus Stop
by Margaret Yang

“Take this,” Natalia said, handing him the hooked-handle umbrella.

“It won’t rain.”

“It’s only the beginning of May.  In spring it rains.”

Ivan snatched the stick from his daughter’s hand.  He advanced through the relentless California sunshine, brandishing the umbrella all the way to the bus stop.  

He patted the senior citizen discount card in his otherwise empty pockets: empty of change, of currency, of car keys.   

“The bus will take you everywhere you want to go,” Natalia had insisted.

Ivan turned his back on the oncoming bus, on the house, on Natalia.  Ignoring the divots of past misses, he dropped an imaginary golf ball onto the grass.  He positioned his body and steadied himself.  He swung the umbrella and whacked the ball.  He watched it fly over the rooftops, over the mountains, over the ocean, all the way to St. Petersburg , where it came to rest in the doorway of his childhood home. 

As the bus grew closer, he took one more swing, and released the overprotective umbrella too, picturing Natalia’s dismay when he came home without it, picturing the delight in the old neighborhood when they received such an unexpected May day gift.