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Godzilla and Me
You looked like Godzilla every time you finished with me,
when you’d take a loop around the sandbox, stomping on
the crude architecture and the plastic molds and shovels.
If you ever caught sight of wet marks in the sand, or found
me crouched under the slide, red-faced and snot-nosed,
you made sure to hit me twice as hard—until I said sorry and
promised to shut up. The day after Godzilla’s most recent
appearance, you invited me to play on the swingset. We
avoided the sandbox. You gave me crackers from your lunch
and smiled. I must have been sick with a fever yesterday
because I’d dreamed something terrible. When lunch was over,
we ventured into the sandbox. You used the brand-new shovels
and molds to build a lovely castle. I built one next to it. In my
joy and ease, I said something that made your face darken like
a thundercloud. Maybe I poked fun at you, or gloated
accidentally, a child with a wobbly perception of security. It’s
hard to remember. But I remember when lightning struck and
Godzilla was back. With each of your blows, I felt the ones
you’d landed on me in the past, tenfold and magnified; I was
one of the little sandpeople, running through the streets of the
sand-city, meeting my doom under your shoe. I swore that I’d
never forget. The whole time I was thinking: if only we could get
along. If only I could fast-forward to sitting together on the bench,
sharing lunch, and building sand castles.
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