your stray dog

I don't run to you when I'm happy, but you're happy to see me always. The same stray at your door, having successfully escaped from where it came from, just for a couple of special snacks that only you have, before you must return me to where I come from.

When I'm scared, or need a hug, or feel alone at 2 am, you hear from me. "How convenient," you'd say, cupping the back of my head. I'd groan, feeling embarrassed. "Who else might you run to?" you'd ask softly, kindly, while my hair is sprayed across your arm and my face is resting on your chest. Oh, how our bodies and personalities have changed, since last. It has been forever. And your voice. It's had that power of calming my scrambled, exhausted mind. I can't bear to continue thinking about all that I come from, my father resting in that sad, drowning place, or the overwhelming tears that pulse behind my eyes every time I return home, to the house he built with his own two hands, and he isn't there. 

He'll never garden on his own again, squatting on the plastic box chairs. Or be seen trying to flip and fix the same lawnmower with the rusted hole and the bent cutter. Or seen -- anywhere in my life.

So with my mind spent, I'd say the easiest truth. "I feel safe here right now, with you." And I'd smile into your chest. It doesn't answer your question, but it answers mine - why must it be you, every time something sad happens? "Aww, baby girl. I understand. Rest as much as you need," you'd say easily. I believe you. 

We never rush. I make fun of your fridge and snack stash. You have plenty now, all of it is yours. This high ceiling. This floor to ceiling window and the tasteful figurines lining your TV. Why must every guy line their TVs with figurines? This stray dog barged into your home and made plenty of jokes about you being the best white mother, this side of Texas. You kept looking at me, fake-appalled, laughing along. 

Even when I'm sad and frazzled, I have that ability still. I can still make people laugh, and when they laugh, I do too. Perhaps it's a fault of mine. That I could only laugh sometimes, if I can make someone laugh first. Perhaps that's why the people pleasing part of me is well-fed like Lucky, our puppy at home. He came to us, a literal stray, and whimpered in our arms, thin like a stick. Its eyes were red, as if it had been crying. I can assume... all the loneliness. The fear of never knowing anyone again. We fed it all sorts of H-E-B dog treats and healthy mixes until now, it looks like a dog with a beer belly, aheh.

It took us 1 month to get Lucky to look well again.

It only ever takes you one night, to make me feel hugged.

You see right through me. That's why I like you so much. I don't explain myself. You simply know that you're a little safe haven to someone who only talks to you when she's in town or needs you to pick her up from Bush.

And so we laugh, like best friends. Rush Hour 2 is your favorite. We only watched 30 minutes of it last time before falling asleep on your couch, and now I'm finally back in town. Not for happy reasons at all but to take care of my family. Welp. But you know, at least, I finally smelled nice, after washing the skilled nursing facility/nursing home off me. 

I put on my favorite Coconut perfume for me and for you, finally smiling, on the way out.

I once liked your voice so much. Now it makes me feel nothing, even as you hold me close, even as I find your sweet voice soothing. But maybe it's not your voice I needed tonight. It's how clearly you see me for who I am in my life right now, that I needed, and somehow, you always figure me out.

Dear readers, I'm not a perfect person at all. I have imperfect coping mechanisms. I won't apologize for.

But if I'd have to explain myself to my future self or say, even my future husband, why I escaped into his arms when I did, which is never often. I can say at least that, in self-defense. I only hope you'll believe me.

And see? Only at my lowest, am I there in his arms. Yet even at my lowest, he picks me up every time. So reader, I challenge you, how can I not? When his kindness and sweetness and abundance of all things good snacks and a car that takes us anywhere. And a mind that is as ADHD as mine, so our conversation flings from the Canada versus US hockey game to Ohio to thin-crust pizza to "You'll buy my Dad's truck, really?" 

I'll always find him cute, even if he's not the one. And he knows it. He knows both things. We know both things well.

It's how he sees me, this lotus flower that's managed to grow from mud, that makes me feel stronger, braver, better each time.

"I'm so proud of you. So fucking proud of you. You are such a badass, starting your life from scratch. You don't know anyone out there, but you did it anyway for your dreams. To do well. For you, your family. And you're also a wonderful daughter. They must be so happy you're here, and you're taking care of important shit. Badass. Time looks good on you. You've grown so much since last.

But also, tonight, I just want you to relax. Rest. Do what you need. I'm glad you're here."

And these are words I hear every day from my little sister and closest friends. Calling them when we can. These are words I know all too well. 

But there are times, when I just want to be protected. I want to be shielded. I want to feel small. Like I don't have to do it all.

Someone else can think for me what I need. A show on Netflix. Snacks, all around. Deep conversations about where we've been and where we want to go next. A strong arm to rest my cheek on. I can just be... a little, imperfect miss.