Jingle

I heard it first.

The metal on metal.

Jingle-jingle-jingle.

A rhythm I'd heard before.

A specific dog.

A specific leash.

A specific walk

I'd memorized without meaning to.

But I'd never seen the dog.

Just the sound.

Just the tag hitting the chain

as something moved past,

as something I knew by noise alone

continued on.

Today I turned.

Tried to catch it.

The dog was small.

Brown. Unremarkable.

The tag caught the light—

that cheap metal disc

that meant it belonged to someone,

that it had a name,

that it was known.

But not by me.

The dog moved away.

The jingle continued.

Fainter.

Then gone.

And I realized—

I'd been recognized

by sound.

I'd become familiar

to this dog, this owner,

to the neighborhood

that hears that jingle every day.

But I didn't know

which dog it was.

I couldn't call it back.

I couldn't claim

this strange recognition.

The jingle faded.

And I was left

knowing I'd been known

all along,

but never able

to know back.