1986
My sister and her husband called Wednesday and told me Dad had
molested their daughter. Over the weekend. At his house. He was
babysitting her. Another sister told them the previous week that they
should be concerned because Dad had fondled her from seven until she
left home at seventeen.

The four-year-old. . . pain, pediatrician, abrasion, evidence. By law, the
doctor filed a report. My sister . . . he put his pinkie in her, he had her
hold his penis, something thick, like toothpaste, came out. It’s what play
therapy revealed. Pedophiliac. I never knew the word before.

1987
Our father pleaded no contest on two counts of child molestation against
his granddaughter. There will not be a jury trial. We are relieved. The
DA told Dad’s lawyer they would pursue the most severe penalty—eight
years for each count—if they proved him guilty.

That night, late, driving up hill, the moon opens in a gap of sky between
trees. It’s circled in light, a ring of light. Further, I drive into mist. It fills
everything—this seldom weather—sky, trees, corners of houses, the
road. It reaches the moon.

– Hilda Weiss