A Poem Explained

A Poem Explained

Part 1: The Poem

Will you play chess with me?

Will you hold my hand?

Will you read aloud to me?

Will you laugh with me?

Will you teach me?

You did.

But it wasn’t real.

A mist

A shadow

An echo

I thought it was made of substance to hold and feel and trust.

Then,

the mist clears,

the sun comes out, bold and bright,

hurting your eyes

and showing truth.

The hot sun shows the bone-chilling truth.

You weren’t real.

You were the monster under my bed.

Part 2: The Explanation

Dear Dad,

It’s the week after Father’s Day. On Father’s Day, I forgot it was Father’s Day until one of my friends asked me how I was doing and I was puzzled why she asked me. So, in light of forgetting, I thought I’d share some memories.

I remember hours of algebra tutoring. Me, crying. You, patient, calm. Only age would help me understand those concepts, but you stuck with me. I tutor math now. I had to teach myself to be patient. When I tutored, I had to teach myself not to yell. Not that you ever yelled at me, but did I inherit that from you? I know I didn’t inherit the desire and ability to better myself from you.

I remember those nights when you read those adventure stories to us. You sat there, after ensuring all of our evening chores were done and you began to read. You read tales of monsters and princes and princesses, each with their own moral lesson. We laughed when the author made the villain in the last book have your same name. What irony! You always stopped on a cliffhanger. It was great. Better than an evening tv show. I write my own stories now. I don’t know if you'll ever read them. But I think they’re better than the ones you used to read. Shocker, you're the villain in some of mine too. I have to be careful that I’m not plagiarizing what’s-his-face.

I remember Friday nights, game nights, where I lost game after game of chess to you. I’ve always wondered, why didn’t you ever teach me tips and tricks to get better? You just kept telling me that I had to look ahead to see what your opponent was probably planning. That’s a great life skill. I use that with you now. I take everything I know about your personality and habits and I guess what comes next. I hope I’m wrong. I am a better chess player now. Shall we play and see if I can beat you?

I remember you trying to teach me how to pick a man that would treat me right. First of all, I’m queer. Second of all, I have disregarded any such advice you’ve given me. You are the last person I would listen to on this topic. You. You, who are every woman’s worst nightmare. You didn’t teach me how to pick a partner, but you did teach me to distrust every smiling, kind face. Thank you.

I grew up having nightmares almost every night. None of them were about you. They were about bugs and heights, my worst two fears. I assumed nightmares were normal. I dreamt that I would wake and run to your room for comfort and safety. And then one day I learned. The mist, the shroud, the lies that covered your soul were pulled away. Truth came in a torrential downpour and washed our lives clean of masks. I would never run to you for comfort and safety.

I behold you in the new light that blinds you after days of storm. Looking through my memory books I see those feet that took me to the park also carried us away from friends and family and safety. Those hands that moved the chess pieces also hold violence unthinkable. Your face that looked on with patience contorts into a monster whose rage tore apart my childhood. Your voice that read those thrilling adventures turns chilling, dripping with venom.

I still have nightmares. But bugs and heights don’t haunt me anymore. I overcame those fears. I worked on them, bettered myself, and they became so small that the nightmare factory doesn’t use them anymore. Now, it’s you. You’re the star of the show. The OSCAR winner of the performances that leave me shaking with chills. I dream that you come back. Instead of needing to rescue my family from a burning building, I have to rescue them from you. I plead and beg everyone to believe me, because in my dreams they seem to have all forgotten. I dream that you’re still here and everything is fine. Then, you rip us apart.

One thing I never did as a child was wish on stars. Pray, I did pray plenty. Now I don’t pray but I think I’ll try wishing on stars. I wish you would go away.

Love,

Julianna