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.
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.
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.
You were never going to ask for anything else.
The paper lasted four seconds. He was in all of it.
For the Christmas that has an empty chair in it.
Last December there were two of you. This December there are three.
For the person you would pick again, and the track that knew it first.
For the song that still means the same thing it did that year.
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.
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.
For the stocking that gets asked about before the tree does.
For the name that gets its own hook on the mantel.
The one stocking that makes the whole mantel look deliberate.
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