Meteor Shower

Come on, let's go look.
We ran-shuffled out into the driveway with shoes too big and flopping around our ankles. This was a hurried scheme and we did not stop for our own shoes.
Will they make noise? She asked.
No, you can't hear them.
It's dark, can we turn on the outside light?
No. We need the dark so we can see them more clearly.
She grabbed my hand a little tighter and held the crook of my elbow with the other hand. We tipped our faces toward the sky, standing in our too-big shoes, in the driveway, in the dark.
What are we looking for?
Falling stars, baby. Streaks of light in the sky.
She looked some more and shivered.
I'm cold and it's bed time.
The sky was covered with clouds, back lit by ambient light from the city; the clouds swirled a thick and brownish gray and covered our view. Fat drops began to fall and we flapped our shoes back inside, away from the rain.
I'm sorry you didn't see them, Mom. She hugged me and went to get her pajamas. Over her shoulder she called, I'm glad I didn't see them. I think they are too big. I don't like the idea of rocks falling through space.
Later, we lay in bed in the dark - the safe dark of inside and in bed with thick blankets and a mom and a brother all snuggled tightly and warm. I thought she was asleep. Instead,
What will they hit, Mom?
Nothing, baby. They are millions of miles away, just falling through the sky.
Oh. I was afraid they would hit us and make craters.
Not tonight, baby. 
Well that's better. I'm sorry you didn't see them.
It's OK. Even though I didn't see them, they're still there. That's enough.
Breathing slowed, and she disappeared behind her eyelids, millions of miles away, just falling through the sky.