I was nine years old the first time I saw the columns.

I remember waking up and noticing that the morning sunlight wasn't stabbing its way through

my childhood bedroom blinds.

Overcast, I thought.

So I went downstairs for breakfast.

My parents were already there, which was normal.

But my father was wearing something that looked like a cross between a formal texido and

a surgical gown.

That was not normal.

What's that for?

I asked.

My parents shared a long days.

My father turned back to me.

Have you seen them?

Have you looked outside?

I had no idea what he was talking about.

What was them?

Who talks about the weather like that?

I was nine.

I didn't really understand how strange that phrase was until I was older.

No, I said.

As I bounced out of my chair and walked over to the window.

...