Some Things You Never Forget

The first time you swam
you leaped into the pool,
trusted the strength of your arms and legs,
let the swell of water carry you forward,
triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.

The call that made you sink
to your knees in dread,
“Cancer,” the doctor said,
and your world stopped turning for an instant.

Your first big heartbreak —
dumped before senior year —
you thought he was “the one,”
he wanted to date around,
you ran all summer to ease the pain,
you grew beautiful and resilient.

Your wedding day —
facing your soulmate in the chapel,
warm, white light streaming down on you,
promising to love and cherish each other
until the day you die,
exchanging rings, kissing,
basking in his goodness.

Your first dog,
whom you’ll always adore,
how, as a puppy, he curled up
in your arms and looked into your eyes
and made you feel safe, known and loved.

The dog who bit you,
and drew blood.
You thought he was gentle,
you thought you could trust him,
but he was a wolf all along.

The one you called when you were in trouble,
who held you when you howled in pain,
who cleaned the wound,
kissed the scar
and healed you.