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I love the way a dog loves: waiting patiently for its owner to come home, soaking up every ounce of attention.
I love the way a dog loves: all wagging tails and bright eyes, looking up at its owner with adoration.

I love the way a dog loves: begging for scraps, running right back to its owner after each beating,
tail between its legs and eyes so wide and forgiving.

Like any dog, I bite the hand which feeds me.
Overzealous, starved, craving.
Tooth meets flesh, tongue meets blood.

Like any dog, I take the punishment for biting.
Good dogs know not to bite.

But I am a bad dog, one that growls at those who get too close.
One that cowers away from gentle hands.

I run back to my owner every time.

And every time, I bite.

Home is a place you can no longer return to, tucked into the crevices of your memory like a piece of paper in an old book.
It returns in fleeting glimpses, conjured by looking at a Lego set you owned or seeing pictures of your elementary school.

For a heartbeat you're a child again: everything is alright, you still love your mother and still believe she loves you.
The days stretch out into eternity and you still wear light-up sneakers.

And then the moment ends, and you age fifteen years in an instant. Your hair is just a little shorter, your eyes a little more tired.
How many versions of you have died since you were five years old?

You want to go back, before everything went wrong. Before you took from the tree of knowledge and your eyes opened.
But while the house is still there, the people are no longer inside it.
How many versions of home have died since you were five years old?

Loving Dogs

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