It was July of 2012.
I was 14 years old.
I did not have a real job,
but instead I had to spend Tuesdays and Wednesdays babysitting my neighbor.

One Tuesday started off like every other.
I arrived at nine in the morning,
waited for the young girl’s parents to leave,
and watched for her plain bagel to jump out of the toaster
so I could spread cream cheese on it.

We were watching t.v.
It was early in the afternoon.
Suddenly, the sunlit, blue sky
turned to a shade of grayish-black,
like ashes in a burning fire.
The blinding yellow sun had left,
hiding behind the thick, dark clouds.

The living room was getting darker,
and the small lamp in the corner of the room
seemed to be getting brighter.

The rain poured slowly,
like syrup out of a glass bottle.
Suddenly, it sounded as if someone was pounding on the windows.
The rain had become more intense,
the thunder roared louder,
the wind blew harder,
and lighting brightened the dark sky.

The young girl started to cry.
She turned to me and sobbed.
“Brenna, I’m scared.”
I could see the fear in her eyes
as tears ran down her face.

My face started to feel hot,
as it does when I feel unsure about a certain event.
The storm was worrying me.
I tried to distract myself by watching t.v.
as I was lying next to her on the couch,
trying to comfort her.

I was scared too,
but I didn’t want her to know that.
I kept reassuring her that it was going to be okay,
as she wrapped her arms around me like a ribbon on a present.

The storm started to lighten up,
and we both began to feel safer.
The t.v. seemed to get louder,
and the roaring thunder had come to a halt.
All that was left was a quiet storm,
with light drizzle and gray skies.