There Have Come Soft Rains

In kindergarten during the Cold War, mid-day late bells jolted us, sending us single file into the hallway, where we sat, pressing our heads between our knees, waiting. During one of the bomb drills, Annette was standing. My mother said I would talk on and on about her, about how pretty she was. I still remember her that day, curly hair and pretty dress, looking perturbed the way little children do. Why Annette? There’s nothing to be upset about— The bombs won’t get us, I’ve seen what’s to come— it is the days, the steady pounding of days, like gentle rain, that will be our undoing.