My oldest brother once went on a European tour with his high school band. When he came home, he brought me a tiny Dutch shoe, which I then wore on a silver chain throughout my own high school days.
A year or two after that trip, my brother brought home a dog.
She was a Keeshond, a breed that originated in Holland.
In the brief time she lived with us, I took her for a few walks and knelt by her and tried to comb her long gray fur. I was about fourteen and skinny and clenched my teeth in my sleep. Beside me, she felt like a warm, breathing rock.
Here's a poem about her from my chapbook Of the Forest.*
Walking My Brother’s Dog
We were different—
she was Dutch and
I was not—
but we had the same
thick, quiet hair
and eyes that watched.
She was strange,
my mother said,
from a place where girls
doused their skin
with perfume
in lieu of bathing.
But I liked to walk
up our curving suburban street
with her. I was a pale
brittle cookie with
cold hands.
She was dark, warm,
substantial,
a steady, silent bear.
Who would have guessed
she could move so fast—
one day she sprang forward
and was gone.
I stayed on,
preferring to leave
more gradually,
pocketing a handkerchief one year,
sneaking out a slipper the next,
followed by a knitted coin purse,
a pair of silver earrings, a box of
blank note cards, a palm-size radio,
and a felt-tip pen. The last things
I took before I left for good
were a drop of blood
and a sewing kit.
By then I had forgotten
her name but had found
my own weight.
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