aging in the year of dying

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Pictured Poem created by Tremaine L. Loadholt

aging in the year of dying

the dog is going blind
to her, as I fade into the
darkness of our hallway, I’m
a blot–an image she isn’t
sure is me

she’s smart–she waits
in the living room where light
lingers and only moves
when she sees me re-emerge
from the belly of
our home

I step back into her view
with a smile on my face
and greet her as If I
haven’t seen her before

I know what it feels like
to see something clearly
again

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