The Storm  

I nuzzle the baby and sigh. Everything hurts; it had been a hard birth, and now, days later, I barely have the energy to lift him, small as he is.

And then a scream pierces the air. I move without realizing I’ve left my bed. Yosef sprints into the room, tzitzis flying. Our eyes meet in question. And then we hear it. “Run! Ruuuuuuuun!”

The cry lingers, its echo chilling. Yosef scoops up Chanah, her curls falling over her face, flings Shimon onto his back — my little boy grabs his kippah to ensure it doesn’t fall off — and I pull Amitai from the blankets.

“Run!”

We need to run, we must run, but how can we run when there are three little people who need us, three little people whom we need? Yosef with his long legs makes it to the street first. The air is no longer golden, it is a mass of black legionnaires, crimson blood, and clouds of thick brown dust.