Sophie
She was named after a 17 lb ball of white and caramel fur
with one ear that stood straight up at attention,
and the other bent, broken before we knew her.
After brown spots that hugged her bulging hips
and brown dots that littered her belly,
bare and smooth.
She was named after the day my sister and I were sitting,
bare legs dangling,
on that white stone wall surrounding our house in Herzliya Pituah,
where we watched our mother’s attempt to garden yucca and banana trees.
She was the wet kisses and muddy paws,
the squeals, thinking life would be perfect if only she were in it.
She was the reason my mother shooed off the wild pack,
and then minutes later, threw us into our orange Vanagon
so we could patrol the streets until we found her.
She’s named after nine years with a sleeping companion
who curled in the crook of my legs and snored.
After a pink tongue that licked off tears of lost loves never really had
and lost friends who weren’t really friends.
After ears that listened when parents didn’t get it
and when all just felt lost
and hopeless
and scary.
She was the pillow I’d lay my sorrow on,
a body to scratch my love,
an excuse to walk- to get away.
She’s named after years of walking in the early dawn
because no one else would do it,
because I gladly did.
She, who I carried down two flights of marbled steps
because her aging legs sometimes went out beneath her,
all so she could pee in empty lots,
with all the cats in Amman following.
She’s named after the one who was a friend to all.
She’s named after visits home after college,
barking welcomes and toenails frantically scratching wood floors to get to me,
even when partly blind,
because I was hers.
Yes, it is true.
Yes, we did name her that.
And yes, I will tell her the truth, the story;
there is no shame.
My daughter is named after the years I was never without love.
