by Ai

    "Sit in my hand."

    I'm ten.

    I can't see him，

    but I hear him breathing

    in the dark.

    It's after dinner playtime.

    We're outside，

    hidden by trees and shrubbery.

    He calls it hide-and-seek，

    but only my little sister seeks us

    as we hide

    and she can't find us，

    as grandfather picks me up

    and rubs his hands between my legs.

    I only feel a vague stirring

    at the edge of my consciousness¹.

    I don't know what it is，

    but I like it.

    It gives me pleasure

    that I can't identify.

    It's not like eating candy，

    but it's just as bad，

    because I had to lie to grandmother

    when she asked，

    "What do you do out there？"

    "Where？" I answered.

    Then I said， "Oh， play hide-and-seek."

    She looked hard at me，

    then she said， "That was the last time.

    I'm stopping that game."

    So it ended and I forgot.

    Ten years passed， thirtyfive，

    when I began to reconstruct the past.

    When I asked myself

    why I was attracted to men who disgusted me

    I traveled back through time

    to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life

    I thought was gone，

    but it had only sunk from view

    into the quicksand of my mind.

    It was pulling me down

    and there I found grandfather waiting，

    his hand outstretched to lift me up，

    naked and wet

    where he rubbed me.

    "I'll do anything for you，" he whispered，

    "but let you go."

    And I cried， "Yes，" then "No."

    "I don't understand how you can do this to me.

    I'm only ten years old，"

    and he said， "That's old enough to know."

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