My dog died a couple of weeks ago,
I guess.
She's sitting in a small box in my mom's room now
with a small statue of a mischievous fox
and a photo of her golden snout
on top.
I didn't go to see her the last
several times I was in town
which means I didn't see her at all
for months before she died.
Maybe that's why
I haven't cried until now;
I don't deserve the consolation of sorrow.

I call her my dog because I was
the youngster that necessitated a dog in 2000,
nothing more.  
But Mali was my dog.
I had to google map it to remember
where in Africa, but Mali was a good name:
A trite sound with an unusual source.
In the end it was too appropriate,
An arid name for a sandy dog
that died too weak to get water
and too alone to have it brought to her.
For days.

When we brought her home all drugged and tiny,
with Dumbo ears and lion paws,
I wouldn't leave her side for days,
eating and sleeping next to her on the floor,
until I started feeling down.
My mom told me it was like postpartum.
How stark a contrast between her coming
and her going!
She still looked like a puppy to me
the last time I saw her,
though she moved more slowly.

Whenever I see home again, months from now,
We'll take her ashes to the creek
and avail them of the wind
and the water she loved.
My dog and my Park,
both long neglected,
relegated to that past that
you can cry for but never reinvest in.