Godzilla of the Parking Lot
The boy carelessly lost the small rubber Godzilla figure from the car at an interstate rest stop.
“Mom! Stop! My Godzilla!,” I shouted.
“His Godzilla!” the little sister shouted, but Mom wouldn’t stop.
Did I dream it like the other parking lot Godzilla?
I had walked up to the monster. He was so tall that it pained my neck to see his face. He didn’t move. His body seemed solid not rubbery like in the movies. I felt the sick terror of destruction.
No. I’m moving away from my problems. I can’t go back there. I can’t.
I said it twice. That’s how you know it’s serious.