He gets confused sometimes—

gets up, walks a few steps,

     –pauses–

looks blankly ahead

     then turns around,

          sits back down

                    slowly.

The doctor says it’s dementia;

it’s just the beginning, really.

It’s in his eyes, though:

     everything.

          He’s not forgotten

     anything;

I’ve not, either—

    not the way he sat

    with me quietly

    through the years:

my parents’ divorce,

     failures

in efforts that could’ve given me

a way out,

          losing my grandmother,

missed opportunities

that might’ve mattered.

He’s been there for all of it—

the last eleven years that settled me

into adulthood.

     He’s graying now;

the black hair he had once

has lightened around his chin

and above his eyes.

          He’s handsome as ever, though,

when he grins,

and that’s what makes it

               alright—

      his aging.

We’ve been happy

along the way,

                    me and Dylan.

He’s been a good dog.

by Rachel Nix

Rachel Nix is from Northwest Alabama. Despite an irrational fear of frogs, she’s declared herself pretty content with living in the boonies. Her previously published/forthcoming work can be found at Spillway, The Summerset Review, and Bop Dead City.