I was two years old when she first left me,
telling me it wasn’t my fault,
telling me that she needed a break, telling me
that she just couldn’t do it anymore.
She said that she loved me,
while walking out the door with her packed suitcase,
her packed dreams,
and her packed life.
She came back during my ninth Christmas,
claiming that she missed me.
I smile, but I know she’ll leave me again.
She promised to call me every 2 weeks,
updating me on her life.
Then she was gone,
leaving me in the dark, leaving me to wonder
what I had done wrong,
leaving me in anticipation for her calls.
Months go by, but she only called
a few times. Once, when she came to visit,
she brought a man along with her.
Why did she bring him?
Three more years have passed,
and I’m getting old now.
I can’t do the things I like anymore.
I’m asleep for most of the day now,
only waking for food.
At the door, I paw anxiously, waiting for her next visit.