The breeze from the east brings
the sounds and smells of the dairy
and the beginning of Fall.
On our morning walk, Sandy stops
to roll in the dewy grass.

A desert valley is no match for
a Golden Retriever, maybe
color-wise, but not ****-wise.
She bumps into me as we walk
and her coat of stickers
scratches against my leg.

She’s not what I ever intended
to love.

My father used to walk alongside
me the same way. Lecturing me as
he walked, he’d lean in, like Sandy,
forcing me to either lean back,
or drift off the sidewalk.

I’d drift as far as possible but
could never escape his thorny barbs,
many of which stuck deep,
festering in my soul for decades.

He’s not what I ever intended
to forgive.

He’s been gone a few years now
and with the passing of time
I have slowly begun to forgive,
and in the forgiving
I have found healing

nevertheless scars remain,
and when Sandy brushes
against them,

I remember.