A sleeping dog lies on the floor

His breath moves his whole body,

And I look at the walls and see how they have changed,

And into a mirror to see how my face has

grown

The air that I once exhaled has been

transformed by a tree,

And another, somewhere, is breathing it in

The dog wakes up in anticipation of his feeding,

His tail wagging and tongue hanging out

of his mouth

And I look to the horizon to see that it has become

greyer with time,

That my mother and father seem more ripe in the scheme of life

So I feed the dog.

He eats his food and I let him outside, and he

runs around

I look to the tree outside the window and notice it’s fallen leaves,

The way the breeze smells how it did when I was thirteen.

Author Bio: Anahid Valencia is a sophomore at Fresno State. She was recently published in the anthology “Children of Immigration: No Soy de Aquí ni Soy de Allá,” which is a great blessing. Her writing explores life’s themes; it is synonymous with whatever she is experiencing at the moment.

Recollections: Of Being is a literary column brought to you by The Collegian, founded and organized by Aura Peredia. We publish writing and art, either political or personal, to create a bridge between varying valley voices.

For previous installments of Recollections: Of Being, click here.