The Quiet Nod

My sister was talking, all childhood easy,

about the summer, back when things felt breezy.

'Remember that dog,' she said, 'the one with three legs,

who always stole your lunch, those hot days, those pegs

we used to hold the blanket?'

My hand tightened on the cup, hot porcelain a shock.

I could feel the blood rush, could hear my own clock

beat too fast, too loud. That dog,

I knew it, belonged to me, not her, a hazy fog

I'd let settle, years ago, on a small, shared truth.

I just nodded, a quick dip of the head,

a silent agreement, better left unsaid.

Her smile was clear, her memory bright.

Mine, a tangled mess, shrinking from the light.