That Year

That year God came to earth disguised as 

     a sixty-four-pound golden retriever 

          who inched her body next to mine nights

I sat on the floor, knees pressed to chest, 

     head tucked on crossed arms, ambushed

          by my father’s dementia.

That year God came to earth disguised as 

     a point-and-click camera recording 

          my hikes across the desert floor

alongside the flaming fingers of the ocotillo,

     bajada lupine’s prickly whiskers, 

        rodent dangling from a roadrunner’s beak.

That year God came to earth disguised as 

    friends guiding me through unfamiliar hallways

          to keep my parents safe and

the husband who insisted we take time

     to sail the North Channel into Georgian Bay

          so I might feel the wind in my hair,

the force of our boat slicing through waves,      

    water surging at my side,

           his arm about my shoulder.

For Lady, Hank, Pat, and Rubin