At first, I think it’s a typo, or maybe an autocorrect error: Mothra, the giant moth with the singing fairy twins who summon her. Then, though, I imagine a giant radioactive mother, prepping bento boxes for her twin daughters. Imagine: she in her house dress, fighting with a man in a foam rubber suit, giant plates running up his spine to that long tail dragging along the floor. Or else it’s Godzilla against Godzilla’s mother, as if he’s been a bad boy, stomping on Tokyo-bound trains, ripping down high tension wires. Always, the Japanese defense forces roll in. Such were the movies of my childhood, the after-school specials on ABC, my mom asking me to start dinner before she got home from work: but the week’s cinema is Godzilla v. the Smog Monster, v. Mechagodzilla, v. Monster X (AKA King Ghidora), v. King Kong. I adored them all, the balsa models crushed underfoot. The closets of that apartment smelled of mothballs. I could boil water. I started the pasta, but forgot the time. My mom rarely yelled at us, but there she was, seemingly ready to breathe fire. The two Mothra larvae on the screen wrapped Godzilla in silk, made a chrysalis of him. What might he become? Later that night, my mother spoke on the telephone – I heard my name, but little else. I watched a Lunate Zale clinging to my window screen. Autumn had already started. The cool air was delicious on my indignant-hot face. I wondered what would become of us all.