The Poetry Marathon

The hum of the refrigerator

The scratch of the dog’s claw’s on the door

Bird songs in the distance

It’s very quiet, but

There is no such thing as silence

It had to be fate because somehow in that storm of unpleasant sounds and smells we found each other.

We were face to face, eye to eye, assessing each other.

I thought No, he looks too much like the dog I grew up with and I don’t want a re-run; I want a new edition

And he just looked at me.

My son squatted down to his level and squealed He’s perfect!

So we took him home – after paying $50, being grilled to determine our suitability as prospective dog owners and after filling out more forms than I had to fill out at at the hospital after I had each of my children.

I thought Maybe more children would be happier if we screened parents the way the dog pound screens adopting pet owners.

The name on his cage at the pound was Handsome, so that’s what we called him. Handsome, indeed.

He was a Miniature Poodle – Bichon Frise mix. That’s what it said on the card.

I was grateful that we aren’t always labeled by our ancestry. Irish – English mix.  That’s what mine would say.

Then I realized that some people are labeled by their ancestry because of the color of their skin, and I was a little ashamed. Ashamed of a thought unspoken.

We took Handsome home.

He broke out of the house and ran away on the very first day. I don’t know if this is going to work out, I told myself.

I felt frantic as I searched, knowing I had to find him, even though others heard me mutter things like Damn dog, I knew this was a mistake.

We found him two days later, rescued by a neighbor.

I was relieved, joyful. He jumped into my arms and licked my face. I kissed him and whispered into his ear Don’t you ever leave me again.

He never did.

The months rolled by, then a year.

His new adoptee behavior wore off and his own personality emerged.

Protective, loving, stubborn, smart.

He learned his own name and a few cute little tricks, but his own strong will persisted.

He showed us who was boss by pooping in the living room (regularly) or barking at one of the kids.

But no matter what, every time I came home, he’d jump into my arms and wiggle with joy

He’d snuggle next to me while I slept

Lick the tears from my cheek when I cried

Run to me when I called his name (and even my kids never did that)

Seem to listen to me when I needed to talk, even if he wasn’t (a trick my husband has yet to learn).

In the day to day moments of home life, he became a member of the family, an ever-present quiet (usually), loving (almost always) companion.

He’s perfect.

Sometimes I wonder how life would have been different if I had walked by him at the pound to the hyper little chihuahua in the next cage or the gorgeous Australian Shepherd across the aisle.

Sometimes I wonder Who owned him before he was found wandering in the country and taken to the dog pound?

Do they have any idea what they missed? Of course not.

It’s probably their fault that he poops he in the living room.

It can’t be his. Or mine.

I can remember the times we argued

They stab me like hot pokers

From a fire that will never extinguish

It burns me, even today, years after you went away

I can remember the times we smiled

They bathe me like the sun on a new spring day

Welcome and quietly shining

They warm me, even today, years after you went away

I can remember the times we cried

They eclipse me like the moon hiding the sun

Both coming and going slowly

They darken me, even today, years after you went away

I can remember the times we laughed

They tickle me like dancing faeries

Twirling and smiling with joy

I giggle with them, even today, years after you went away

I can remember the day you left

It both soothes me and tortures me like the wind

Your last words, your last smile, your last breath

I cling to them, even today, years after you went way

A new day

Like 18,322 she had awakened to before

Black to gray to white

Darkness to dawn to light

Exactly the same

And completely new

A new day

Hi, friends.  I’m Veronica, a writer from northern California. Grant proposals, reports, blogs, social media posts, profiles, pamphlets, brochures, homeschool curriculum, non-fiction books – whatever it takes. Those are all for other people.  I’m currently working on a novel and a collection of poems.  Those are for me. I used to tell people I wasn’t a poet until I realized how silly that is. To love words is to be a poet.

Why did I decide to join the Poetry Marathon?  I saw the post for it on Facebook and thought, “Why not? What better way to shake loose the creative cobwebs?”  I also did it because I’m not a joiner, but I need to connect with others.  This seemed like a good way.

I’m a wife, a mom, a writer, a San Francisco Giants fan, a dog lover, a woman of faith, a friend, an orphan, a sister, and a devotee of the Oxford comma. And that’s just a start.

I don’t plan to do anything special to prepare for the marathon. I’m not a stranger to all night writing sessions, so bring it on!