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.