The hailstones, when they finally fell, looked more like the remains of an exploded ice planet, once large, decimated even more by flight and atmosphere, and now here were the comparatively tiny remains. Why did everyone always say golf balls? The hailstones came exactly when I needed to leave the house; you knew they would. You told me once you'd never seen hailstones and I reminded you of that summer when you were a baby and the hail came and destroyed our roof and the insurance company wouldn't pay for a new one because they said that's not the kind of insurance we had. We don't normally see weather like that here; how was I supposed to know what to get? I was so young and there was so little money, it’s lucky we had any insurance at all really. I moved your crib into the living room where it was too bright and you slept poorly, which meant I slept poorly, and I taught myself how to fix the roof in the nursery. It took more months than I care to say, more than nine.
             You reminded me you were just a baby, so how would you remember a thing like that? I still thought having once carried you in my womb meant we would always be able to read each other's minds.

Hannah Harlow has an MFA in fiction from the Bennington Writing Seminars. She promotes books for a living and lives near Boston.You can find her online at hannahharlow.com