Up until I was about
six years-old, and
figured out I wasn't crazy
for not liking
it, my father
and I would wrestle.

We'd play on his
bed, and all
was fine and
dandy, but
it usually ended
with him
putting a pillow
over
my face and
pinning me down
so that I was
unable to
move or breathe.

And I would
scream and
panic and lose
breath from
screaming and
struggling, and would
be waiting
to die.

Then he'd pull the
pillow
away, laughing.
But
seeing that I was
crying, he would
get angry and
say,

"I was just
playin' with you. You know I wouldn't hurt
you!"

Then he'd chase me away disgusted.
I'd go to my room feeling
confused.

Upset at myself for
being scared. For making
him so upset by
not getting the
joke.