When I was 8,
I got my first personal pet.
The kind of pet,
Who is only yours,
Not belonging to the whole family.
And I loved him.

When I was 8,
I named my guinea pig “Brownie.”
He was a boy.
And I loved him.

When I was 9,
My mom told me,
Brownie was a girl,
And he wasn’t brown at all,
I looked at Brownie’s,
Orange and white fur,
And told her,
He was brown on the inside.
And I loved him.

When I was 10,
My friends and I,
Gave Brownie a bath,
Out in the sun,
Inside a soapy bowl.
And I loved him.

When I was 11,
I saw Brownie one day,
He was sick, I could tell.
Mom and I held him,
As he began to twitch,
And relieve himself ,
On my shirt,
Then he stopped moving.
And I still loved him.

When I was 11,
Mom and Dad and I,
Dug a hole,
And placed Brownie in.
And I still loved him.

When I was 12,
I realized,
Love is letting go.
Like when you are at,
The carnival,
And you allow,
Your big red balloon,
To slip out of your tiny fingers,
And away up to the sky,
Where it belongs.
And no matter what,
I will always love him.