Dreaming of Little Red Riding Hood

This is me.

This is a version of me.
A prequel.
A seed.
A prediction.

This is a photo
of the photo
taken by my mother
(who else?)
at my grandparents’ house
when I was
(and I’m guessing here)
just three.

It was Hallowe’en
(which is often winter in Ottawa)
and we’d gone
to my grandmother’s house
as we did every year
for trick or treat.
(I still totally dig the mask in my basket.)

That’s my little dog
on the left.
Her name was Poncho
(which will be funnier
in a moment).
Part poodle
and part Mexican Chihuahua
she was
(as you can imagine)
quite confused,
culturally speaking.
I loved this frenzied
face-licking dog.
She was afraid of lightning
and balloons and
my parents hosted
a New Year’s Eve party
and there were balloon games
and Poncho shook
and shook
all night.
Poor dog.

I don’t remember being this age

Memory is an odd fellow
holding tight to some things
letting go of others.

I don’t remember this day.
I wonder how it felt to be me
when I was three.

I think I had not learned
the word
I was Little Red Riding Hood
for goodness sake.
Fearless slayer of wolves
and brave protector of grannies.

P.S. Thanks, mom, for taking this photograph.
P.P.S. There are more Monday dreams here.


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