Your Name

I sit on my usual bench in the dog park. There are so many dogs here today—chasing, jumping, lunging, barking. Spring is here. The cherry trees overlooking the bench blossom, their petals rocking with the breeze and drifting onto my lap. It is my happy place.

My gaze jumps from dog to dog. A cream-colored lab attempts to mount a tall brindle mix, who, surprised but determined, flings every part of himself to shake off the offender and, in the process, knocks over a shih tzu busy butt-sniffing a corgi. The corgi, freed from the sniffer glued to his rear, eagerly joins a wrestle between a pit bull and a golden retriever. The golden puppy pauses, confused by the intruder, only to invite loud complaints from her impatient playmates, both old and new. She retreats warily into my lap.

“Go! Go play over there, you two!” I shield the golden puppy with my legs from the aggressors, who still try to sneak in a few nibbles before their owners call them away. Half of her face is wet from the spit of the other two dogs. She settles between my thighs, looking up at me lovingly.

“You look just like Bailee’s friend Stella,” I tell the puppy, who leans harder into me. I pull my legs together so she doesn’t slip through and fall to the ground. She locks her gaze into mine, panting softly in my face. The musky, sweet scent of puppy envelops me. Before she can lie down completely, I nudge her gently on the back.

“Go play with Bailee.”

Reluctantly, she stands up and trots away, stealing a few glances back at me.

“Go play with Bailee!” I encourage her with a vague gesture toward where I think Bailee is. But my index finger wavers uncertainly in the air, unsure where to land.

Where is Bailee?

I scan the dog park again, this time more thoroughly. Inch by inch, dog after dog. There should be one pacing along the fence, anxious—neck stretched, eyes wide, nostrils raised and flaring, hurriedly sniffing every human she passes. A look of panic. The look Bailee carries every time she thinks she has lost me in the dog park. I used to watch her with guilty amusement. But before it became cruel, I would make a sound, guiding her back to me. What a joy it was to see her dash into my arms, her gait light with relief.

But no dogs are searching. Not a single one of them.

Maybe Bailee hasn’t realized she’s out of my sight yet. So I call out, “Bailee!”

A passing dog flicks me a hasty glance and runs on.

“Bailee!” I call again. Stepping away from the bench to make myself more visible, I bellow out, “Bailee!”

A few people glance over. No dog responds. A sharp jolt of alarm shoots through me. Then—anger.

I get it now. Desperation has switched sides. Guess who’s searching this time. But, Bailee, this is a terrible time to hide.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. Before I even know what I’m doing, I click on Photos. A sea of images floods the screen—snapshots of people and everyday objects, random, raw, unposed. Many with notes. OK. That’s something. I scroll through the images, searching for a dog. Oh, there is one. A young girl carrying a fuzzy white bichon with sparkly, beady eyes. Below it, the words:

Granddaughter Jesse, with Luna.

Who is Luna? Luna is not Bailee.

I scroll up too fast—my eyes can’t keep up. But I can’t find a second dog. I scroll down. Then up again.

In my album of memories, in my lifeline—Bailee is also nowhere to be found.

My fingers tremble over my phone. A gust of wind chills me to my fingertips, where my empty gaze lingers. Why are my hands so leathery? Wasn’t I a young girl when I had Bailee?

I want to cry. But panic tightens in my chest, locking my tears inside. So I stand there, shaking, staring at nothing.

Shadows hover close. One of them speaks.

“Are you looking for something?”

Yes, I am looking for Bailee. But, stranger, you don’t know Bailee like I do. And how is Bailee supposed to find me when you all stand in the way?

“What kind of dog are you looking for?” Another voice follows before I can wave them away.

The best kind.

The kind whose eyes follow me through high and low.  

The kind whose touch keeps me grounded.  

The kind whose breath lulls me to sleep.  

The kind whose company defines the best years of my life.

I want to tell him all that. But words escape me, too. So I just stare back, defiance as my only weapon.

Nobody seems offended. A woman takes my hand and leads me back onto the bench. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. What’s your name?”

“Bailee.”

The word slips out before I can stop it, breaking through my silence, my whole defense.

“Your name? Your name is Bailee, too?” Her eyebrows lift but soon settle into something softer. “I thought Bailee was your dog’s name.”

“Bailee.” A sense of pride lifts my gaze to meet hers. “Her name is Bailee.”

My confidence must be catching on to her, because she turns and begins speaking to someone else. My hand is still in hers. The pressure is assuring.

Bailee is a little, little puppy. She lives with Mommy in a big, big city.

I nestle deeper into the bench. With my free hand, I pick up a petal that has just drifted onto my lap. Spring is here. The air is warm and dry. Racing dogs kick up dust. People stand awfully close, one of them holding my hand. Squirrels wake from the winter and rustle the barren branches as they scurry around. Bailee must be somewhere, gazing up at the squirrels, waiting for one to fall into her mouth.

If I squint a little, I can see it in the back of my mind.

It is my happy place.