I ran across this picture of my older brother Dana. He was three years older than me. It was taken in a nursing home near Sacramento, California. He died there shortly afterward.
He was my blood brother, and the similarity between us—though not exact—is pretty close.
When we were kids living in Floriston, California, something happened to him that I have never forgotten.
We had bought Jungle Hammocks. Each one had a canopy and mosquito netting, and we hung them between trees up in the mountains above Floriston. Our dog was with us that night while we tried them out.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of the dog barking.
I looked across our campfire toward Dana’s hammock.
It was empty.
The dog was standing next to it, still barking.
Then, for some reason, I looked up.
There was a big round metallic sphere hovering above us, emitting light.
Suddenly I felt something brush against my back, under the hammock. I looked down and saw a mountain lion. It wasn’t threatening. It was just there—beautiful and calm.
Then I passed out.
When I woke up, the campground looked normal again. My brother was back. We never spoke about it.
But his life was never the same.
He became different after that.
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