Fidelity

The neighbor's dog started barking—

same breed as the one we had,

that specific sound of a body

waiting by the window for people

who were never coming back.

I remembered our dog's food bowl

still sitting in the garage,

dust settled on the rim,

a place-holder for something

that stopped needing to eat

eight years ago.

My mother used to say

the dog was the only one

who ever waited

without getting angry,

who would sit by the glass

day after day

and believe we were coming.

That kind of fidelity

is embarrassing to witness.

It makes you aware

of your own failures,

your own capacity

to stop showing up.

I never threw the bowl away.

It sits there like evidence—

evidence that I knew

what loyalty looked like,

and I let it die.

The neighbor's dog kept barking.

Same sound.

Different dog.

Same waiting.