Sarah and I jumped up and down with joy as we held the back screen door shut so Harley wouldn’t dart into the driveway on that perfect summer afternoon. A Suburban rolled in — husband, wife, son, daughter — close family friends pulling into the gravel like they always did.

    Jeff was a year younger than me. Dawn was a few years younger than Sarah.

    Anytime they came over, it meant three things: ice cream sandwiches, Popsicles, and parent-free good times.

    Mothers issued their instructions like a formal decree. Jeff and I, the eldest, stood at attention. We both knew that if anything went sideways, we would carry the consequences.

    Ice cream sandwiches weren’t allowed until after supper. The scissors were located in the kitchen drawer — only Jeff and I could use them. One Popsicle each. Water mandatory. Select “building supplies” were provided. Boundaries of the yard were firmly established.

    Then came the ritual: mosquito spray. Each of us was thoroughly hosed down with repellant like livestock before auction.

    And then — released.

    Out the back door we went.

The Kid Cave

    Operations commenced immediately. We needed a base. A headquarters. A kid cave.

    The clothesline became our architectural anchor. Two enormous blankets were thrown over it, forming a triangular fort with an opening on either end. Large stones from the yard stabilized the corners. Sheets became doors, secured with wooden clothespins.

    It was magnificent — the finest blanket tent ever engineered by children who believed themselves invincible.

    Round two Popsicles were distributed, and then came the unraveling joy of summer: running, climbing trees, poking at things with sticks, laughing so hard your stomach hurts and you can’t stop because everyone else is laughing too.

    You remember that kind of laughter — the uncontrollable kind, the kind that folds you in half and makes breathing optional.

    We collapsed onto the grass in hysterics.

    That’s when I saw it.

The Orb

    As I rolled onto my back, staring up at the endless blue sky, something hovered above us.

    A reddish-orange ball of light.

    It shimmered, but not like sunlight. It had density. Containment. It hummed softly, like distant electrical wires.

    Six or seven inches in diameter. About five feet off the ground.

    Alive.

    The laughter stopped.

    One by one, the others noticed. Silence fell over us in a way I have rarely felt since.

    The orb didn’t feel threatening. If anything, it felt curious — as though it wanted to be part of our game.

    Jeff stood slowly and swatted toward it — instinct, mixed with a quiet kind of bravery.

    Before his hand could connect, the orb drifted backward gracefully, almost elegantly, then returned to its original position as if to say, Not yet.

    Jeff’s voice cracked the stillness.

    “Ruuuuunnnnnn!!!”

Inside the House

    We bolted — through the back door, through the kitchen, up the stairs, into the bedroom — screaming words none of us would later remember.

    We slammed the door and stood there, panting, counting heads.

    All accounted for.

    A few seconds passed.

    Sarah tried to speak but couldn’t. She pointed instead.

    And there it was.

    The orb floated into the center of the bedroom.

    It had followed us.

    We were quiet children then — not the laughing kind, not the brave kind. Still.

    My mom’s footsteps rushed up the stairs — we’d come barreling through the house screaming. Her voice rose toward us.

    “What on earth are you kids doing—”

    And then she stopped.

    Her voice disappeared. The room shifted. The humming grew just slightly louder.

    And the orb hung in the air between us all.

What It Meant

    Looking back now, decades later, I don’t remember fear first.

    I remember recognition.

    As if something ancient and unseen had stepped briefly into our childhood — not to frighten us, but to remind us that the world was larger than the fence line our mothers had set.

    It did not burn the curtains. It did not scorch the carpet. It did not speak.

    It simply existed.

    And then — as quietly as it had arrived — it dissolved.

    Not upward. Not downward.

    It left without motion, like embers cooling into nothing.

    My mom never gave a full explanation. None of the adults did.

    But none of them denied what they saw either.

    And that silence, in its own way, confirmed everything.