The sun is hot. I sit by the pool listening to the vacated water singing an adolescent’s enjoyment. Screams of enjoyment emanate from innocence; clear chlorinated water ripples a seduction. I want to jump into that water—my leap a baptism of renewal. But I see you lurking beneath the water’s calm. Don’t try to disguise yourself, my father—my Monster, just tell me what you want. Be done with it, then move on to wherever you reside.

No, no one hears you but me. My brother, your youngest son, has no desire for you; his memories are vague. Yes, the prepubertal essence that attracts you is your grandson, my nephew. He knows not of your existence—and never will. What about his sister… her friends? No, adolescence never attracted you. Why start now? You are a monster intent on reclaiming your dominance over a poor innocent, perhaps a befuddled man who sees you still… your true essence.

Yes, Daddy, Dad, Father, Monster, I’ll swim with you, but first you must remember. This time my memories will dominate our time together. It’s my turn; it’s my right. After you listen to me, maybe I’ll listen to you. But there’s more going on, isn’t there. A simple father and son swim isn’t what you want.

Dark clouds flutter above us. Perhaps it’s a quick moving storm… or perchance God’s lingering warning to you, the Monster whose time in Hell is yet served. Eternity is not ten years buried. But you know this, don’t you Daddy, Dad, Father, Monster. So stay out of sight, skulk amidst the pool’s depth where only I can see you. Remember, as I close my eyes to the water’s blueness.

There’s a faded scar on my upper lip hidden beneath my five-day growth. I see it every morning; my razor feels its lumpiness. Why? All I wanted was for my father to help me with a cub scout project—build a musket of sorts that I would use as a prop in a play depicting Revolutionary War soldiers sitting by a Valley Forge campfire. My father insisted I use the handsaw; he showed me how to make the first cut into the plywood we scavenged from the garage’s clutter. I hesitated during that first cut; the splintering of the wood surprised me. Before I could reposition the saw, my father disappeared, replaced by a seething Monster who took pleasure in slapping me across the face with the sharpness of the handsaw. My blood mixed with a young boy’s tears, enraging you, the Monster. I was kicked, punched, and pummeled from the garage, ordered by you, the Monster to run laps around the ranch-style house I wanted to retreat into. How many laps did I run that cold winter’s day? I don’t remember. But I have visions of my blood turning the snow a crimson red. It seemed I was always running back then. But you, the Monster always caught me. Does my audacity churn the blackness in your soul? This time I smell chlorine, not bleach. You know... my olfactory trigger?

There’s a blue 1964 Plymouth Fury parked outside my consciousness. On the front seat, there are your, the Monster’s skin magazines inviting me to look. A Marilyn Monroe type, topless and provocatively posed, whispers to me in black and white. My father wants me to get his cigarettes out of the glove box. I keep my eyes closed as I reach for the glove box, knowing the Pall Mall package will sicken me. But you, the Monster, interpreted my hesitation for some peepshow perversion. You, the Monster, ate my shadow; you, the Monster again abducted my innocence, accusing of it of touching me in ways I didn’t understand.  The ritualistic beating ensued: the brown alligator-hide belt’s hunger devoured my flesh; your Monster’s hand pulled at my genitals. That was the first time I heard the word “masturbate.”  1964… I was ten years old. Just ten years old!

What… Daddy, Dad, Father, Monster, you don’t like my memories?  You just want me to swim with you… sink into silence? One more memory and I’ll dive into the water. Yes, I feel the wind picking up. But I’m sure you’ll delight in the irony of this memory.

Maine… Sebago Lake… a warm summer afternoon. My father guides me towards the raft; his blue eyes smile as I bobbed across the green water secure in his arms. My father promised me he’d teach me to swim. My uncle stands on that raft with my cousins encouraging me. But I slip climbing onto the raft. Somehow, My uncle’s laughter summoned you, the Monster. I was lifted from the green water, choking, and most likely crying. My lungs barely caught a breath when I was thrown back into the green water. The bass and sunfish watched as you the Monster dove into the water and pushed me downwards to sand and weeds. How my uncle fought off you the Monster and brought me to the surface I don’t know. I think he recognized you the Monster—perhaps similar to his, but different—he knew your intent. Why he yelled at my father—his younger brother— instead of you the Monster mystifies me… but many memories still cloud my perception.

Do you hear the thunder? The pool’s water is reflecting darkness. Who’s calling to you, Daddy, Dad, Father, Monster?  Have my memories revoked Hell’s temporary furlough? I doubt God’s calling.

Do you hear the music coming from the patio? Yes, that’s my niece calling out to me. You got no right calling her “granddaughter,” or my nephew “grandson.”  Yes, my children answer to those names… Just listen to Warren Zevon singing Knockin' on Heaven’s Door. Do you hear the song… understand the lyrics as you lurk within the chlorinated water? Let me help you…

Mama, put my guns in the ground

I can't shoot them anymore.

That long black cloud is comin' down

I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door.

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door

Knock, knock, knockin' on heaven's door…

No, the raindrops hitting the water are not my tears. They’ll come after the storm passes… they always do.