This dog

This dog,

lopsided ears, a blue tongue

hanging out. Crayon-thick,

waxy against my thumb

as I smooth the old crease.

Remembered the table,

the kitchen light,

their small head tilted,

the serious question about

what tomorrow would bring.

And I said, "Yes."

Said, "Definitely."

Their hand, small and warm,

folded into my palm.

The way their chin

tucked in, just once,

a satisfied nod.

This paper feels thin now.

The blue is fading.

Tomorrow didn't bring it.