Merced, California, 1955,
age 3 or 4,
standing in the driveway at dusk,
beside our little bungalow,
listening to my parents talk
about something called
daylight savings time,
not understanding, not caring,
because the waning light
was so interesting,
something I usually missed
when the family was inside
watching television.

My parents hold my baby brother
on one side of the driveway near the house,
and I stand on the other side,
near the hedge between us and the neighbors.

“Look!
Over there!
What’s that?”

Someone pointed into the sky quite above the neighboring homes.

I see it,
immediately recognize it,
am terrified,
and even more terrified
at the realization that my parents
do not understand at all
something I understand
all too well.

What to do? With parents who don’t understand the danger?

Whatever happened next,
I don’t remember.
Only dark, curious scenes
that somehow seemed to be connected
with an image I associated
with the movie, Peter Pan.
Or was it?

I saw a giant mountain floating by
with things hanging under it
like roots, only they were not roots. And everything was dark and extremely foreboding.

The biggest shock:
that my parents didn’t know
anything
about something I knew
all too well.