Air

Like every night, the windows are blacked out. Snippets, mere slivers of light invite whistling then silence and stilled breathing, then the end of silence and the end of breathing, for some. Others will scream into the void, into the brick returned to dust and mounds.

Black is safest, but it’s not really black: the moon still shines, starlight twinkles, and from heaven the bombers can see silhouettes like in a child’s school performance in a darkened theater: enough to illuminate the crouching figures, enough to see what waits.

Pass the popcorn (there is no popcorn). Turn on the light (for god’s sake don’t turn on the light! Can’t you hear the engines’ whine?) Momma I’m scared (hush, hush baby, it’ll be all right.) You want to breathe again but the pilots might hear you. You want to breath again but closing your eyes is like a bear hugging you too tightly, it’s like that time in the swimming pool you got held under the water and fear ripped out your heart and you wanted to breath, anything, open your mouth and suck in water just to fill your lungs with something besides fear but it’s still dark. And the planes are still overhead. And you want to check the corners of the window to make sure no light can escape, like picking a scab – it won’t change anything for the better.

Time doesn’t pass with the sweep of a second hand. It doesn’t freeze like the top of a swing’s arc, the moment you leap into the void, and you see how the nearby tree limbs sieve light through dust, how the baby’s red hat sticks to her head, how far away lies the earth, how your heart is overhead until all at once gravity reaffirms her smooth embrace and your feet ache to find the ground, and laughing you land and roll and sound re-emerges from your ears.

It’s over. The all-clear sounds.

How do they know, Momma? What, baby, know what? To sound the sirens. How do they know it’s safe?