Nora’s tower was eleven blocks tall. The blue block balanced at the top like a hat. Then the dog’s tail swished past, and every block tumbled down.
Thunder filled Nora’s chest. Lightning raced into her hands. She wanted to shout at the dog, the blocks, and the whole wobbly world. So she did.
Grandma came close, but not too close. ‘That was a big crash,’ she said. Nora could not answer. Words were too small for the storm.
Grandma sat on the rug. She did not rebuild the tower. She did not tell the thunder to stop. She pressed both feet into the floor and breathed slowly enough for Nora to hear.
Nora squeezed her hands into tight fists. Then she opened them. Tight fists. Open hands. The lightning became a flicker. The thunder moved farther away.
‘I worked and worked,’ Nora finally said. Grandma nodded. ‘And then it fell. You were furious.’ Hearing the right word made the storm feel smaller, as if it finally had a jar to fit inside.
The dog crept over and rested his chin on Nora’s knee. Nora was not ready to smile, but she scratched one soft ear. Together, they found the blue block under the sofa.
Nora built again when her hands were ready. This tower was only six blocks tall, with the blue block on top. It was not the same tower. It was a new one, built after the weather changed.