Excellent We don't know what we don't know. Trial and Error by Aisha Robins I Remember writing prompt entry Artwork by Linda Bickston at FanArtReview.com

I remember a summer night in 1999, when I was 45 and my father invited me to be his lover and partner and help him pretend that he was still young. Maybe you're shaking your head, thinking I should have seen this coming. But I had three considerations working against me: I had been desperate for my father's love since I was four years old, I was raised to be a Class A accommodator, and I had a high capacity for trust. Since I was still growing myself up at 45, I was part little girl who didn't want to lose the good parts of the relationship I thought I had with my father. He took me dancing in elegant Beverly Hills hotels. He was respected in the radio business, producing programs for Ronald Reagan and Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. He took me to Cirque du Soleil and out for expensive dinners in Las Vegas. I loved bolstering his ego by teasing him and laughing at his jokes. I convinced myself his small demonstrations of affection were acceptable signs of the love I'd longed for. I delighted in the little "I miss you" cards he sent. I let him get to know me and I was desperate enough to trust him that I sloughed off any misgivings. But I remember when that changed, the night I flew to Las Vegas to spend a weekend with him. The night he proposed that I forego the discomfort of the sofa bed in the guest room in favor of sleeping with him. He even promised to wear his heavy duty chastity belt. How could he believe that his desire to make love to me, to express a passion that I couldn't comprehend, much less share, would be answered with anything other than a shocked "no?" I stared at him in disbelief. He tried to make it sound like no big deal and said he thought it was what I wanted. I shook my head, said, "No." After this, would he try to talk to me? What more could he say? What would I say to him? What did I feel? What could I feel? We didn't say "goodnight;" the situation was not one for social niceties. I climbed the stairs, stopping half-way up when I remembered I'd left my cigarettes in the kitchen. The enticement of smoking to relieve my stress was stronger than my fear of seeing him again that night. He had his back to me and was going through his routine of setting up the coffee maker for the morning, business as usual. I held my breath and thought, "I'm invisible, don't turn around, don't turn around). After a successful mission, I didn't waste any time getting to the guest room balcony and closing the French doors behind me, as far from him as possible without leaving the house. It has only been in hindsight that I've wondered why I didn't call a taxi. Such a fine line there is between trusting and being gullible. Summer in Texas: ugh. The August night enveloped me with remnants of the day's heat and humidity. After my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see fifty feet below, beyond a lower deck, to the faint curve of a path that wound along a creek and through dense woods. The upper branches made a canopy that hid most of the sky. Random tiny yellow-gold firefly signals punctuated the black beneath leaves and between tree trunks. I took slow, deep breaths and tried to let my attention go into fugue state as the staccato drone of the cicadas surged and diminished around me. Bull frogs occasionally contributed their basso profundo notes to the aural texture. What a relief to be alone. And then the mechanical sound of the hot tub motor inserted itself. He was still awake. I began agonizing, making myself sick: When should I have seen the red flags, understood his attentions were not appropriate? Could I let myself off the hook because my awareness had been tunnel visioned by what I wanted to see? Now what do I do? Should I tell my mother? Will she believe me? When do we figure out if there are boundaries that simultaneously support our need to be true to self and to be loved? Trial and error leave a lot to be desired. I remember that summer night in 1999, when I realized that nothing my father had done was how a father is supposed to act, when the lie I uncovered wasn't that I had lost something; it was that I ever had anything to lose. Writing Prompt Begin your non-fiction autobiographical story or poem with the words 'I remember...' Complete the sentence conveying a moment, an object, a feeling, etc. This does not have to be a profound memory, but should allow readers insight into your feelings, observations and/or thoughts. Use at least 100, but not more than 1,000 words. The count should be stated in your author notes. Author Notes 773 words. If you're wondering whether or not my mother believed me, she didn't.

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