Replacement umbrella

I got out of my 2-3:15 class today at 2:15, leaving an hour to sit around and wait for the rain to pass. Though the rain drizzled slightly when I first entered Fleck Hall, fifteen minutes later, just my luck, it had transformed into a hurricane. Amazing how that happens. As I sat surrounded by enormous windows showcasing the dreary visage of a rainy day, all I had to indulge in was the last remaining copy of the Hilltop Views. I knew I could join the rest of my peers and hold it over my head as a replacement for my forgotten umbrella but, instead, I took it in my hands and read it. Ever since the internet, the physical newspaper seemed archaic and rudimentary. I had begun to overlook the simple joys that came from the paper--what the internet fell short on. As the pages turned I inhaled the distinct smell of that thin and easily tear-able paper. A smell as if you were walking through a library: scholarly, historic, and woodsy. I noticed my fingertips had become a light gray, highlighting words and phrases that they had happen to be placed upon. The internet, I thought, took those things away from me. The minds of journalists are less tangible. The blaring screen cannot not leave their words on my fingertips to be remembered. The rain ceased and the sullen cloud let a little sun peek through. I stood with my newspaper. I placed it back on the stand. I left remembering that what had brought me joy on a rainy day was the intentional form of a replacement umbrella.