The clouds that were once tattered threaded themselves together, and dropped rain from the sky. A grandpa sat at the window, watching the fields fight the torrents as they came. Wind bent the tree’s and thunder clapped applauding the dancing lighting.

“Grandpa,” said a sweet voice coated in sugar, with no venom poisoning the innocent phrase.

The grandpa simply grunted at the little girl standing in the door way. She held her stuffed bear by its paw, and the bear hung limply. Her golden locks were flying around escaping from the braids that once captured them. The grandpa expected the girl to complain about the weather or tell him of her fear in the weather that had invaded the night sky.

But she surprised him. No complaining words escaped her precious lips, and no fear wrapped themselves around her sentence. Instead she asked her grandpa, “ Why is the sky crying?”

Why indeed? The grandpa wondered. Was it because of all the deaths it had to watch? Was it all the illnesses it had to see? Was it because of all the tears it had seen? Was it all the the things it had to watch, when it had absolutely no way to stop it?

All this skipped across the grandpa’s mind. Bee’s buzzed across his mind speaking all of these probabilities. In the end though, he simply was shrugged his shoulders, and said to the little girl, “The sky has no feelings, it is rain, not tears,”

The little girl looked up toward her grandfathers face, and then whispered, “Is that what you do grandpa? Do you not cry grandpa? Do you rain?”