Part of my father's story
by Gail
Your great-uncle lived with your family
for a year or two or three.
That much is certain.
He slept in the sewing room with your mother's
patterns, and both you and your sister had to pass
his door to reach the stairs.
Or he lounged on the bed next to yours
night after night, telling you about the other
children who passed through his hands,
who liked his games.
He lured you with candy. He made sure
that your parents weren't home.
He knew that you'd do as you were told.
He made you stand against the door
while he slid his hands under your sister's dress.
He showed you what she looked like with no clothes,
and she cried. He never touched her at all.
He made the two of you play with each other.
When she wasn't home, he made you touch yourself.
He touched you. He put your hand through the slit
of his pyjamas, moved it up and down, rubbed his
semen into your skin. To keep you young, he said.
You scrubbed it off with the soap that your father used
to clean his hands. Or you let it stay until your next bath.
Finally, and this is true, your parents shipped him away,
to another relative, before he could do something 'inappropriate'.
It was too late. You kept playing the games with your sister.
You kept playing them with yourself. You did nothing.
You forgot all the games.
When your wife had a daughter, you waited
to get her alone. You wanted to start the games again.
You didn't know why you pulled off her gown.
You thought that it was your own idea.
