One rocket comes,
another goes.
The windows and doors shake
so disturbingly.

My 2-year-old niece
runs to me, scared,
trembling at how loud and sudden
are the sounds.

She looks at me and says,
"What is this?"
I hold her in my arms
and caress her hair softly,
trying to keep my tears from raining down.
I whisper almost like a lullaby,
"It's thunder, baby girl.
It's thunder; it's going to rain."

She points at the doors
and looks me in the eye.
"But I don't want it to rain!"
I take a deep breath
and continue caressing her.
Neither do I.