Red

I look out my window
just in time to see
the woman walking
the red dog.

And think about
my mom
who likes to tell me
about the duo
in long winding
circles of words.

Does she love to see them
because the red dog
is the bright color
her hair once was?
Do we like to be
reminded of ourselves
reflected back as in a mirror?

Does the punch of color
stand out in her
increasingly fading world?
Sometimes I stand
just a few feet in front of her
and she says,
“Where are you?”

In those moments
I’m wondering
where she’s gone.

NOTE: Earlier this year, I decided to sign up for a quick poetry class. I’ve had an interest in writing poetry but didn’t really know where to begin to learn. It turned out to be a wonderful way to process the grief I was going through and discover more of my creative side.