As the tension left, I suddenly felt like the wind had been knocked from my chest, as if I had fallen from a swing and very suddenly found myself attached to the ground instead of flying through the air, with black spots across my vision, and my lungs so flat I didn’t think I would breathe again.

The two of them ran across the game room, their feet pounding against the floor as if they were giants. They crawled through their vinyl tunnel, stuck their hands through the holes they had torn into it, beckoned one another to come in.

The younger one wraps himself around her legs in front of the stove, pulling at her sweatpants, wiping his snot and saliva down the length of her calves like the gummy trails of snails. The oil in the frying pan pops onto her fingers and burns the insides of her wrists and she shouts for the younger one to back away and for the older one to stop jumping, but neither one listens.

They fall to the ground as the ball does, and its thud echoes in their small chests like the sound of the front door slamming the night before as their dad left. They lie there and pretend that the clouds will fold them into their warmth.

His brother shouted at her to never stop, to keep spinning them forever. He could picture the three of them, spinning as the sun sank and the darkness swallowed them, the night lights turning on and dousing them in their soft glow.

He woke up in the dark warmth of the car as it started to hail. The chunks of ice popped against the windows, the sharp sound against the glass and the metal of the car like miniature fireworks. The clouds outside looked low and hungry, and when he pressed his hand to the window it left a perfect print of warmth on the glass.

By the time I get to our block, my hands feel numb, the gloves I remembered to bring to work still sitting on my desk next to my computer. I can see the faint outlines of age spots around my knuckles, the skin looser than I remember, chapped and dry.

At the desk, I nod hello to the woman and write my name across the sheet on the counter in front of her. She’s round and large chested and her eyes remind me of an owl’s – wide and deep with thick, dark lashes.

She listens to the sound of tennis pounding over the paved track, the controlled breath of the runners that pass her by. She can’t walk around the lake without losing her breath, feeling the jolt of the pavement in her hips. Her body hasn’t been the same since having her son, or at least that’s the excuse she gives herself.

They built streams and rivers and damns. They shouted instructions to the sky and begged for more rain to flood the yard. They studied the clouds and named them based on their size. They searched for ones that looked dark and swollen with water but found none.

The boys pile leaves that have fallen into their yard from the neighbors’ trees. They laugh and throw themselves into the piles, opening and closing their arms and legs in great, swooping arcs. “Leaf angels!” they tell her.

It’s in those moments that she feels him the most — the moments when her breathing slows, and her teeth stop chattering and her skin goes from tingling to numb and the world feels like it is standing still and that if she even breathes she will ruin it.

If he wakes up and the moon is still outside his window, he whispers and rolls them along his dresser, reminding them to move quietly because it’s still too early to be awake. Sometimes he tries to coax them back to bed and they all fall asleep on the floor of his closet or in front of his bookshelf.

He watches them pick through plastic plates piled with fruits and vegetables. A small, long-haired monkey grabs a piece of banana and nibbles the soft part. He wonders if the monkey would also like a pouch of baby food, but neither his mom nor his dad thinks to offer him one.

The baby laughs at the water as he scoops it in his hands and brings it to his mouth like he is about to take a sip. She shakes her head as he looks at her, smiling, and lets the water run down the sides of his palms. She has always been able to communicate with him without speaking.

They bounced and flung their bodies at the nets around the edges of the bounce house. The younger one shouted and stuck his nose against the palm of their mom’s hand. He bounced towards his brother and tackled him. They toppled and laughed, limbs flying everywhere.

You smelled like hay and grass and earth. You told me that we were born of different times. It wasn’t untrue, but I wasn’t ready to believe it. Instead, I kissed your shoulder and closed my eyes with the night.

They move like they are afraid of stillness, afraid that if they are still, their muscles and joints will fuse together and cease to work. Their shouts feel like home and when they are quiet, they are doing something they aren’t supposed to be doing.

The air outside smells cold and crisp and hurts her lungs in a way that makes her want to run forever. She can hear her heart in her footsteps and the sound of the world around her waking up and by the time she gets home, her side aches and her throat feels raw, like she has been sucking on something sharp.

She imagines their claws and their footprints and their breath against her face. She imagines the way their voices must have bounced off the earth like thunder. She feels like if she listens hard enough she might hear their hearts still beating through their bones.