Always My Good Dog
They do not teach good boy in any language. He knew it anyway.
They do not teach good boy in any language. He knew it anyway.
The first tree, the first address, and one line underneath that says both.
The first tree, and the first address worth putting on something.
The book was the same every time and she never once sounded bored.
Same tradition, new memories, same two people.
You did not grow here. You still ended up home.
The photos deserved better than a folder called 2021 final.
Six hundred miles, and she still knows.
The address changes. The line does not.
You did not rescue him. He picked you and moved in.
For the woman who never asked for credit.
Christmas grew by one, and it will never be this small again.
Everything in this house started as something she planted.
Dad never left. He just got quieter about it.
The paper lasted four seconds. He was in all of it.
One recipe, two pairs of hands, twenty years apart.
For the two of them, exactly where they want to be.
For the Christmas that has an empty chair in it.
Last December there were two of you. This December there are three.
For her, because home stopped being a place a while ago.
For the tree at their house, the one nobody is allowed to touch.
For the argument about the star that you let him win every year.
The one stocking that makes the whole mantel look deliberate.
For the dad who says he does not need anything, every single year.
The photo she would have picked herself, and the line you have never quite said out loud.
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