We Chose You

 

We don’t remember the road names,
or the way the sun burned the dirt,
only the hunger
and the weight of things crawling on our skin,
and how small the world felt
when our ribs showed more than our fur.

We were brothers before we knew the word.
We were bones and breath.
Six weeks old and already tired.

Then there were hands.
Careful ones.
Not the kind that grab,
but the kind that lift and pause,
as if asking permission.

You smelled like food
and patience
and something we didn’t yet have a name for.

You picked us up
like we mattered.

You pulled the ticks away
one by one,
as if time didn’t matter
and neither did inconvenience.
You fed us before yourself.
You watched us sleep
like you were afraid we might disappear.

That’s when we decided.
Quietly.
Without ceremony.

You were ours.

We grew.

Our legs got strong.
Our chests filled out.
The world got bigger,
but somehow safer,
because you were always in it.

We learned roads,
new houses,
new smells,
new skies.
Countries changed.
Neighborhoods changed.
Beds changed.

You didn’t.

So we learned to sleep lightly.
Even when we sleep hard.
One ear open.
One body touching yours.
Just enough to know you’re still there.

When you’re angry, we feel it
before your voice does.
When you’re sad, we sit closer.
When you lie down,
one of us becomes the wall,
the other becomes the door.

Not because we’re afraid.
Because it’s our job.

We wake fast because the world can be loud.
We stand tall because you once stood tall for us
when we were nothing but ribs and hope.

And when the sound is nothing,
we come back,
curl in,
breathe with you,
and sleep again.

Five and a half years now.
Still following.
Still choosing you.

We don’t care where we go.
We only care that we go together.

You saved our lives.
So we guard yours.

Always.