Father

I am at my grandmother’s house, in a nylon sleeping bag on the dusky floor of the living room. Her soft, wrinkled body curled on the davenport, silhouetted against the light from the bronze lamp behind her. But the light is dimming, grungy and yellow, and I can barely see that she is transforming in her nightgown into something with shining cerulean scales and growing teeth as my body goes rigid and...

I am running, trying to escape something, something I don’t know, but I cannot move and everything is opaque and dull until I see our kitchen, my mother turned away from me. I reach her, ready for her embrace, but she turns around to show that her face is disfigured, skin like dripping wax. A hole opens to reveal a ring of teeth and it lurches towards me as I tense, screaming and I…

I am on the living room floor, in the yellow house, our house. I cannot move, something holding me down as the carpet burns mildly onto my flesh and I look up and see…

You. But is it you? I remember these as nightmares, but this I see clearer:

Your face, but not your face

Something more primal

I can see the whites of your eyes,

Their red broken veins in the dim of the room

A guttural growl you release

Snarling and spit flying as your teeth descend

down as if ready to tear away at my skin

I’m shrieking and squirming for any release

But you pin me easily

Like a wolf on its prey, and I cry again

I know she is here

A light at the top of the stairs

Shadowing your face like charcoal

But why won’t she come? Why?

Hot tears come now, fast and with ease

And now I’m free running running running

Up and away as you stand, laughing

You’d had your fun

I call you on the phone one afternoon. “Do you remember…” and I describe this to you, perhaps with less fervor. “Yes.” Your response is drawn, your voice smaller now. “Why do you ask?” You sound so timid, ashamed even, as though you were wishing I had forgotten. I have you cornered though, now. I tell you I couldn’t remember what the truth was -- reality becoming dreams, and so on.

You say, “I was supposed to be a monster,” then pause before saying, “Your grandma used to do the same to me.” As if that validates it somehow, but I smile, hearing the regret in your voice. “Don’t worry,” I assure you, “This is funny now.”