The Afterlife

“Your grandfather passed away.” I heard my father say on the other end of the phone line.

“He’s not my grandfather,” I reminded him.

“Well, anyway, I just wanted to call and let you know. I don’t expect you’ll be attending the funeral.” The tension in Dad’s voice made me choke, and twenty million thoughts ran through my mind before I could answer him.

I don’t hate you for bribing me with butter rum life-savers,
rides to school when it was raining,
quarters, cookies,
for luring me into your frigid bedroom with the door shut,
or for peering at me with lecherous eyes while my gaze fell frozen on the posters of half clothed women in your work shop,
not for spoiling my cousin when she came to visit so that I’d be vying for your attentions when she left,
not for asking me to watch you take a piss,
not for holding me too tight on the riding lawn mower,
not for calling me a pig when I took one too many cookies,
not for molesting my best friend down the road,
not even for the acts I’m still too afraid to mention,
or putting your shaking old hand up my own shirt,
all before I turned 8 years old.
I don’t hate you for asking me to bed with you when I was fifteen.
I don’t even hate you for calling me a dirty little girl when I confronted you
and was finally old enough to know it was you that was screwed up.

I hate you for today,
for feeling like there’s one million fingernails on a chalkboard in my fucked up brain,
for how I still hate to be tickled,
for the lot of masks I force myself to wear,
for not being able to scream loud enough to make you leave me the hell alone,
for wanting to feel like a confident, attractive, sexy woman but not perfect enough to blot you stench from my being,
for seeing you face every fucking time I smell alcohol breath,
for stealing my climax before any lover’s touch,
for having to explain my timidity yet again,
for the jolt of terror I feel when I hear you voice in bed with me late at night,
for being there, in an eerie spirit, when I had my first kiss at 15,
for remembering the nightmare I had the night before while I’m on my lunch break at work, and for the ones I can’t remember,
for all the men I sucked off just to see if it felt right this time,
or even just better than the last.
For making me more susceptible to the next belligerent fuck that came my way,
for how my mother and grandmother found you frightening enough to protect you rather than me,
for leaving me feeling unfinished,
for all the second guessing I still do when someone compliments me,
for the fight and flight I feel when I’m not expecting a hand on my shoulder,
for the instant nausea when I’m offered a mint or a cookie,
for not anticipating the next time your memory will rape me once more,
for picking the scabbed over remembrances, so I can lick my wounds again,
for the recollections that creep back once I’m finally sure they’re buried,
for making me a statistic,
for all the money I’ve spent on therapy
for how you marched back into my world just to announce your demise,
for the rage I still can’t fully describe,
for the afterlife I live each day.

“No Dad,” I decided. “No I won’t be attending.”