When I was two, my mother forced me into summer swimming lessons.
It was at the community pool, and she’d deliberately park far from the entrance.
The blacktop was hot, and I cried in pain as I burned my feet.
The only sandals I got were the ones she hit me with.
So I ran from her abuse, nearly getting run over several times.
Finally making it to the cool wet grass at the lot’s edge, I kept running.
She caught me, and hit me more.
I never learned how to swim.
And I never learned to stop hating her.