Betty White dies at the age of ninety-nine, just a couple weeks shy of her 100th birthday. There comes a time when the soul speaks to its host and it says, “I’m tired. I’ve seen enough. I’ve had enough. I am done. I want to rest.” And as much as I would have loved to see her make the milestone of 100, Betty marked so many of them off her calendar and checklist.
The Golden Girl who delightfully gave us Rose Nylund for eight years took her final bow on Friday, December 31, 2021. There’s a piece of my heart breaking into more pieces right now. I am sure I’m not alone.
Rest in Power. Give ’em hell on the other side comedically, Betty. I know you will.
Jernee Timid, my wild-haired little monster. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
My wild-haired love sits comfortably in our space. I stare at her — globes for eyes, a song for a heart . . . she gifts me life. I haven’t had to search for a love stronger than hers in thirteen years — a milestone.
No one can compete. No one can compare.
She is a constant reminder of all things good in this world, and I breathe fresher air when she is near.
The new year tiptoes into sight, carrying unknowns along beaten paths. I will bask in the peace that is the comfort of a lap dog’s patterned pants.
I am safe. I am free.
With family struck ill by an overgrown virus, my stomach is double-knotted as worry sinks itself into my veins. I am prayerful. I am hopeful. They will all survive.
But if death comes knocking again, I’ll plead with him to leave the babies alone. I may get my wish. I may not. But at least I’d state my case. At least he’ll know how I feel about his existence.
A day off from work to spend wisely with a four-legged gem who doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am is a present daring to be opened daily. I unwrap it knowing underneath its covering is and forever will be happiness . . .
And love.
And a look of captivation and admiration from an animal who doesn’t speak my language but understands everything I say.
*It is my hope and prayer each of you will be safe and connected in some way to family and love as you usher in a new year. May it be a happy and prosperous one. Peace and blessings.
Writers, Thinkers, and Fellow Beings of Expression, I am sharing this post as I believe it’s an important subject matter. And, it’s a contest. Get your minds ready. Peace and blessings.
Before I pack these precious words up and store them away, I wanted to share the gift that will keep on giving: the gift of expressiveness through words. Each card pulled a different feeling out of me, and I will cherish every single one of them.
I hope all of you have had the time to enjoy this holiday season and lean into “the little things” just a bit more. I know I have, and I am grateful.
Sometimes, when I’m thinking about some of the best loves I’ve had in my life, and I hear this song, I get a bit teary-eyed. It’s such a beautiful song about pure, indescribable, natural love.
I hope you enjoy this song as much as I do. Listen to the words, let them wash over you. Peace.
I know not to call you anymore. I know not to text. I let the thoughts of you wander in and caress my shoulders, but I do not engage. The holidays are here with their incessant come-hither vibes, and I am weary. I flit between loneliness and happiness and unsureness effortlessly.
I ache in several places. Many I can disclose. Others, I cannot. You would know if you saw a certain look windmill past my eyes. You would catch it quicker than a hare racing a tortoise. Always eager. Always waiting . . . passionately. At least, you knew what I needed most and when I needed it.
I have not had my needs met in a number of months that exceed this God-forsaken virus’ inception, and I miss you. I miss what used to be us sneaking in quickies before the children rose from their beds. And there’s no one I can tell. There’s no one who would listen. So, I talk to the air. It can keep a secret.
Being with you was my imagination’s way of reminding me I can go overboard and well . . . I need a lifeboat now. I can say it without feeling ashamed. I am speaking to the shadows of your past self, and they tell me in faint whispers, “You must move on. You must break free.” Get me there, I say to myself — just get me there . . . wherever there is. But . . .
I am stuck. Still planted in the same spot you left me, and try as I might, I can’t lift myself to freedom.
I have smiling faces around me — cluttered in love, googly-eyeing one another, and I am envious. I don’t want to be. No one wants to hear about a person wallowing in their loneliness — spreading self-pity. It’s contagious, and there are no vaccines against it. So, I spend time alone. It seems fitting. No one questions it.
The dog paws at the tears that fall from my eyes. She’s used to this habit of sulking — these seasonal blues. And really, I wish she wasn’t. I wish I wasn’t.
You’re probably wrapped in love’s cure-all right now — shit-talking your husband playfully — preparing to chant positively for another new year. I hope you’re at peace. You always were. I guess, you always will be . . .
A Cornered Gurl 
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