Ryan,

You know it has taken me a few days to respond to this as well.

It was summer 1985 and I was 9. My brother and I were spending the week with my grandparents, like we normally did every summer since I could remember. I grew up at their house in the summers....huge field to run and play in and ride my bike, they had mini bikes for us to ride, and a swimming pool in the back yard, but you really couldn't see it too well from the house. My Gramma never worried about us kids in that pool; we all grew up in it and were excellent swimmers. Gramma used to say I should have been born with gills.

My Dad's youngest brother is only 4 years older than I am. One day, my Poppa had taken my brother with him to my great-grandparents farm, so it was just the two of us in the pool, and he decided we should play Marco Polo. Since he was older, I had to be Marco. The game was gong fine for about 10 minutes, me yelling 'marco', him responding 'polo' and i could hear him dive under the water to escape me catching him. Then, one time I called Marco, and he didn't answer with polo. I felt my bathing suit being moved away from below my waist and felt a pain I had never felt before in my life. I didn't know what to do. I just stood in the water, paralyzed with fear. I didn't want to get in trouble, so I would mumble marco every few minutes so my Gramma would think we were still playing and wouldn't come outside.

After it was all over, I got out of the pool and raced for the house and got dressed and stayed in my Gramma's ceramic shop class with her for the rest of the afternoon. Gramma didn't mind; I was the apple of her eye, her pride and joy and she liked bragging me up to her friends in her classes. I remember painting my mom a Miss Piggy figurine that day.

He came into my bedroom that night to continue where he left off in the pool earlier that day, but I've blocked out what happened. The next day, my Mom came to pick us up. It was time for us to go home, our week-long visit was over.

The next summer, we didn't go because one of my other uncles had just come home from alcohol rehab, so we couldn't stay with Gramma and Poppa for a week like we had so many summers before. They came to visit us instead.

To this day, my uncle and I have never spoke of the incidents, and I watch his daughters closely. My dear Gramma passed away 4 years ago, never knowing what her youngest son had done to "Her Jennifer". And my Poppa will go to his grave, never knowing what his son has done to his oldest grandchild.

My T and I had just started to talk about it a couple of weeks ago, then Hurricane Hell swept through my life, and we haven't had a chance to really get the scab completely ripped off yet. Hopefully, I can get myself through these temporary hiccups so I can cast out the demons that have been haunting me for so long.

You are not alone, and your courage motivated my spirit to finally get this off of my conscience after 20+ years of agony and silence.

Jenn