this isnt a poem. and you shouldnt read it.

some pretty bright and bubbly terrible scene.

you walk out to the backyard. it’s a very warm, dry day. the dry heat is something you just haven’t quite gotten used to. your mother gave you a sipper of milk to take outside with you because your asthma acts up and the creaminess coats your throat and soothes better. you don’t know you have asthma, what you do know is that last year the smog sent you to the hospital many times. your baby lungs couldn’t handle the smog. so now as you go out to the backyard you carry your milk.
you walk over to the big tree in the left corner. to your right are the big rocks where you cracked your head open. you were only one and a half then, but now you’re big. you’re big like the rocks, but not big like the tree. not even your oldest brother is big like the tree. you remember falling off your brother’s shoulders because the other one was tickling you. you don’t remember hitting the rocks or all the blood. there are pictures of you in this pretty red dress with a big bandage around your head.
you get on the tire swing hanging from the tree. you kick your feet and get some momentum. it’s so hot and dry that the bit of shade the tree offers and the breeze you are creating by swinging both feel delicious. for a while you are merely five and swinging from the tire. the sun breaks over the innocence on your face.
then he walks up. you know you are supposed to like him, but you don’t. you hate him actually. you are told you love him, like you love the rest of your family, but you don’t. you don’t know why, but you know something is not right about him. your sister has tried to warn you, and told you to stay away from him. none of it makes sense to you though, all you know is the slow fear.
he comes over behind you and gives the tire a little push. it scares you and you almost drop your milk. a little splashes out of the no-spill sipper top onto your arm.
“where’s mommy?” you ask.
“her and grandma went to the store.” he replies.
thinking quickly you remember that your daddy is playing ball in the park with your brothers and your sister is at the neighbors. you tense up as you scan the yard. you look over to the fence dividing your yard from your neighbors. you wonder where everyone is and why it’s so quiet.
“oh.” is all you say. for the moment you try to just keep swinging.
“that’s a pretty red dress you’re wearing,” he says. he’s rubbing the sleeve between his fingers and you don’t like it, but you know better than to jerk away.
“thanks,” you murmur.
“it’s kind of hot. i think i’ll go inside,” you say.
you hop off the swing, but he’s right there, holding onto your wrist.
“let’s go into the garage,” he says. “it’s cooler in there.”
you follow him because you don’t know what else to do. you’re tired and it’s hot and there is no one else there. in the garage it’s musty and damp and the only light comes from a few high windows. the door is shut tightly. there is a sandy dust covering everything. little bits twirl and suspend in the few shafts of light breaking in. he leans back against your daddy’s tool shelf on the back wall. you navigate around the oil sheet laid down for mommy’s car. it is so quiet and still that you hope he doesn’t hear the way your heart pounds. the stuffiness makes you cough a little, so you take a sip of your milk. your eyes scan the room for some escape. this is when you first learn to retreat into yourself.
he unzips his pants and motions you forward. your little girl brain is scrambled and all you can do is cough again. you bring your sipper cup up to your mouth but in one quick motion he’s grabbed it from you and with his other hand he’s reached behind your head. his grip is soft, but firm.
you know struggle is worthless. he pulls you to him, and at six, your head is small and his hand is big; it fits around you. at six you are not tall, but you are tall enough. in fact, you are perfect height he’s said. you try to look down, away, at anything but that unzippered monster in front of you. there is lace on the front of your red dress and you focus on its intricacies.
he does not notice your avoiding eyes.
“can you do Grandpa this one little favor baby?” he speaks softly, and rubs your cheek.
you continue staring at the lace, each little flower your mother lovingly sewed on. Grandpa echoes in your head. you don’t want to get your dress dirty in the garage and that scares you most.
“come on baby,” he says as he tilts your head back.
you open your mouth because you know that is what he wants. it’s bigger than you remember and you think how he is as big as the tree. you are scared you will choke, especially because you have been coughing and the heat and the musty and the dry and the stuffy. but you do it anyway. because you are six and don’t know what else to do.
you’re about to close your eyes.
at the time you do not know the whirlwind that is about to begin. that this may be the one moment in your life that will change and affect everything after. you have no idea what your father will end up doing. you don’t know the christmases that will be spent away from the sunshine. you don’t know about therapy, addictions, panic and love. you never knew you would grow so good at keeping secrets.

it sits in your mouth hard, but soft. he tells you to be careful of your baby teeth. to wrap your lips over them and him. his directions are unnecessary, as you’ve been here before. it smells, but not bad. he smells too, a mix of cologne and sweat. that sweet smell will always spark your memory.
at one point, in a goodwill, as you walk by the racks of old man suits, the smell of what?, Grandpa’s cologne?, hits your senses so hard, you don’t know how you could have ever forgotten.
you have flashed back to that summer day. that day that was so hot. and you spilt your milk on your red dress. you still own the dress. for years you insisted to your mother that you keep it, though you soon forgot why, and she would never remind you. it hangs in the back of your closet with a few other baby clothes. it’s a silent reminder of something you still swear you’ve mostly forgotten. when it does come up you tell others you have a photographic memory. all you see is this one moment. when you flip back to this scene, this day, you see only a snapshot.
your sister illuminated by shafts of setting sunlight. you don’t remember if she yelled your name or his or what happened next.
your sister in the doorway illuminated by shafts of setting sunlight.

he jerks back and it falls out of your mouth. you realize you’ve been choking and crying and you begin dry heaving.