The Tower That Fell

Anaya sat on the mat and built a tower.

Block on block on block, red and yellow and blue. Higher. Higher. Higher still.

Then — CRASH!

Down it went. All the blocks, flat on the floor, right by her feet.

The big feeling came. Fast, and hot, and loud.

Anaya’s face went red. Anaya’s hands made two tight fists, right there on the mat.

“NOOOO!” shouted Anaya.

Papa put down his cup and came and sat right down on the floor, next to the blocks.

“Squeeze,” said Papa. “Squeeze it all into your hands.”

Anaya squeezed her hands tight. Tight, tight, tight. Like a lemon. Like a sponge. Her knuckles went pale.

Some of the big feeling went out, right through her fingers and her thumb.

“Now blow,” said Papa. “Blow it far away.”

Anaya took a big breath in, hands on her tummy.

And — whoooosh — she blew it out, right past her own nose. Like blowing bubbles in the bath.

Some more of the big feeling floated off, the way a bubble floats and pops.

But some was still there. Some was still there.

So Papa opened his arms.

Anaya climbed right in.

The blocks stayed where they fell, red and yellow and blue on the rug. Papa’s arms stayed round Anaya.

The fan went round and round over their heads. Outside the window, on the sill, a bird sat and looked in.

Slowly, slowly, the red went out of Anaya’s face.

“Again?” said Anaya, looking at the blocks.

“Again,” said Papa.

Anaya picked up the first block. It was the blue one.