Remembering

My Father's Brother

My dad took me to his mom's house. He didn't take me there often. There was always broken glass in the street outside and my dad always reminded me to "watch my toes" every time we visited. Sometimes he would carry me inside even though I knew to watch for the glass, but most of the time he made me wait in the car while he went inside. This time, he dropped me off. His mom wasn't home, only his twin brothers. I couldn't ever tell them apart. I didn't know them well and I remember asking my dad not to leave. It was dark inside the house and the air was always thick with smoke. I didn't like being there. I sat on the couch, and one of the twins explained to me that the blanket on the couch was my grandma's and that the blanket was made by Native Americans because my grandma was part Native American. We talked about that while the other twin got ready to leave. He told us he would be back soon. We kept talking about the blanket and being Native American and he told me that my other sister lived on a reservation. I asked him if I was part Native American. I remember he started to touch my hair, stroke my head. He told me how pretty my hair was, how pretty I was, how much of a big girl I was. He was sitting really close. He started pulling at my clothes, the sleeves of my shirt at first. I remember feeling uneasy, but I didn't really know why. He told me something along the lines of "don't get grumpy" and said something to me about how he could tell my daddy doesn't rough house with me enough. He started pulling my shirt up from the bottom. I started yelling at him, but I dont remember what I said. I tried pulling back from him, pushing off his chest with my hands, but he was holding me where I was by my shirt. He grabbed my hands from off his chest and held them above my head. He pushed my arms back over my head until I fell backwards. He pulled off my pants. His hands were rough. He was talking to me, but I don't remember what he said. I don't remember if I was listening. I was pleading with him. He hurt me. I remember it hurt. I don't remember the details; they all start to run together. I stared at the ceiling and tried not to feel. I felt myself floating. I argued with myself about what the pattern on the ceiling looked most like; I could never decide between flowers, fireworks, or dandelions. I thought about how all the ceilings in my life had the same pattern. He threw my clothes at me when he was done and I got dressed quickly. He walked to the bathroom and then stayed in a different room until my dad came to pick me up. I sat on the couch and waited for my dad. I didn't really cry then, but I remember I cried in the car because he ripped my favorite shirt.