i remember jackie’s hair, thick and black, salt-wet from the sea,
the way it clung to her neck when we’d walk the cracked streets of viejo san juan,
our chocolate lab’s nails clicking on cobblestone,
tongue lolling, tail wagging like he understood love better than us.
i remember the apartment—cheap tile, open windows, no screens,
just the hum of coqui at night and the heavy air that smelled like rum and rain.
we’d fall asleep to that sound,
her breath slow against my shoulder,
our dog curled at our feet like an old promise.
i remember the drive down la costa,
windows down, dog’s head out,
her arm out too, fingers slicing the air like she could part the wind.
we were young and broke and sure of everything.
chicago in the rearview, puerto rico ahead,
and for a while, that felt like freedom.
i remember the way she laughed at the gas station man who tried to sell us coconuts,
how she always knew just enough spanish to charm,
but not enough to argue,
and i’d step in, and she’d smile,
like i was still her hero.
i remember bringing her back,
the dog grayer now,
both of us quieter.
chicago colder than i remembered.
she kept looking out windows like the palm trees might still be there.
i remember when she started talking about him,
that friend who wasn’t really a friend.
i’d see the way her eyes softened when his name came up,
the way she stopped finishing her sentences with me.
i remember the night she left,
no fight, just a suitcase by the door,
the dog watching with those same old loyal eyes
like he didn’t understand why we weren’t all going together.
i remember.
i remember her,
him,
the way some promises break without a sound.
i remember our dog,
old now,
still waiting at the door sometimes,
like maybe she’ll come back,
like maybe we all will.