Ed, a writer, tells his story of something unseen:

It was a summer day with skies almost cobalt. In parts of New England, homes are constructed with the front of the building on the edge of the road, without the benefit of sidewalks. The house I grew up in was one of those houses. It had a front step, and then the road.

I was five years old with hair so blonde it was almost transparent. My favorite playground was the vacant field across the street that my father had made into a baseball diamond for me. This was not a tiny diamond to fit the size of a boy, but a full size major league one. I didn’t own a bat or a Glove, but I had a ball that was smaller than a regulation baseball made of soft red rubber.

One day I took my ball that I loved and started to run full boar out the open front door, across the street to play. Suddenly, when I got to the doorway, something like a huge pillow gently pushed against every part of the front of my body and wouldn’t let me get through the door. I backed up to try again but the invisible force still wouldn’t let me through the door. Just then, a car raced by faster than any car I had ever seen. As the car roared on up the hill, the force no longer restrained me. I looked both directions and dashed to my field to play.

Ed. J. Oregon