A cartoonized version of Jernee Timid, derived from an original photo I took of her several years ago. Google Gemini is the AI tool I used to convert the image.
Just after work yesterday, I took the body to a place we enjoyed for months—our sister imaging center, to visit with previous co-workers and staff there. My friend’s mother—eager to see my smiling face, and offer a hug that said to me, “You may not be mine, but you are mine,” awakened my heart’s pain.
The elders, as they often do, check on us when we need it most. The way she tilted her head and asked, “How are you doing?” could not have prepared me for what would take place next. I knew what she meant. I knew how she meant it. And when your name fell from her lips, the tears fell from my eyes.
I apologized as I am wont to do when my emotions take over, and she held up her hand to me and shook her head No… ”I asked you. I want to know. Don’t you dare apologize for feeling, Tre.” And I heard the bass in her voice, attempted to tighten up, but also loosen up, too.
It’s still unreal talking about you and not coming home to you. There are far too many reminders, and so many people who knew you. Everywhere I turn, sadness is waiting to string me along. I hate that this is now what clutters my heart—that I have made space for pain of this magnitude, and it shifts only when it is good and ready.
At the mention of your name, I become puddles that plough through the depths of powerful grief—I wade accordingly, searching for a shore that will envelop me and keep me safe. I can no longer run to you for a sense of security. You don’t crawl into my lap for warmth or stand at the entrance of our bedroom, waiting for me to exit.
You’re in so many places that make up who I am, and erasing you was never a plan—but keeping you in all those spaces is running over me. And if I can be completely honest with you, I did not prepare for you to live and die, and live again.
And for me to live and die, and try to live again.
Photo by Reba Spike on Unsplash. The image depicts a fluffy tabby cat floating through the air. It appears the cat is suspended in midair by ten red heart-shaped foil helium balloons, the strings of which can be seen near his midsection. The sky in the background is a deep blue, with clouds scattered throughout.
“Kinley Chris, you see that fat cat anywhere down there? Grandma said it rushed outta the art room after knockin’ over her famous vase, and now I can’t find it nowheres!”
Wayne Donald shouts from the top of their ancient staircase down to her sister near the basement. She is standing on her tiptoes with her right hand on her hip, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.
“Wayne Donald, girl, you better stop that yellin’ at the top of them stairs like that before Grandma come huntin’ for ya. I don’t see that fat cat down here, and it shouldn’t come this far anyway. Check the bedrooms and then the two guest bathrooms. It’ll probably pop up again when it’s supper time.
Wayne Donald searches each guest bathroom, bedroom, and then circles back around to the staircase, wandering down the hall toward their grandmother’s bedroom. With each step, she grows curiously curiouser as to where their tabby could be.
“Bruce Dennis! You fat cat, where are ya? BRUCE D-E-N-N-I-S!!! Where are ya, Bruce Dennis?”
Just like the girls, their fluffy and pleasantly plump tabby cat is double-named with what most people would consider a name fit for a man; however, the cat is female. On a somber and stormy night, the cat, who was then a kitten, found its way to their front door. The girls heard something scratching at it lightly. They begged their grandmother to walk to the door with them to see who it could be. When they peeled back the squeaky door, to their surprise, the kitten sat there with the most pitiful look on its face. The girls pleaded to keep it, and their grandmother approved.
They screamed names back and forth until finally, Kinley Chris chose the name Bruce, and Wayne Donald selected Dennis. Their grandmother nodded and tutted them with her hand to get the girls out of her hair. Bruce Dennis had become a part of their family.
“Bruce Dennis! Brucie! Where is that cat?”
Wayne Donald walked deeper into the bowels of her grandmother’s bedroom and slowly approached the old window. Upon looking outside, she gasped. Hanging at least 450 feet in the air was Bruce Dennis, tied to a bundle of red balloons. Wayne Donald almost fainted.
“Kinley Chris! Get up here right now! I say, get on up here!” She took a moment to breathe and then scolded Bruce Dennis for being outside. “Bruce Dennis! Now, how in God’s holy name did you get out there? Where’d you get them balloons?! KINLEY CHRIS!!! I SAY, GET UP HERE NOW!”
Kinely Chris raced up the stairs, taking them by two, and ran to their grandmother’s bedroom. If she had been any faster, smoke would be at her heels.
“Wayne Donald, I declare, you’d better have somethin’ serious for me callin’ my name like you The Law.” Wayne Donald looked at her big sister, her big come-hither eyes stretching wide as the Nile River. She huffed and pointed to the window.
“Kinley Chris, you just go on and look out that there window. You just look. Bruce Dennis is floatin’ up toward heaven.”
“Bruce Dennis is doing WHAT?!”
The girls stood at the window, both of them flabbergasted by the scene before them, and shocked at just how peaceful their fat cat appeared. They looked at each other and within seconds knew exactly what to do…
“GRANDMA, BRUCE DENNIS IS ALL RED BALLOONED OUT AND IS ON HER WAY UP TO HEAVEN!”
Their grandmother sat peacefully in her art room, playing her jazz records and tapping her feet. She tutted the girls silently to herself and shooed their summoning with her hand.
K.E. Garland (aka Kathy) of Inspirational Kwotes, Stories, & Images & I at800 Degrees in Charlotte, NC. If you’re not aware, she is also the author of several books, most recently released, In Search of a Salve: Memoir of a Sex Addict. It was our first time meeting, and I had a great time! Photo Credit: K.E. Garland/Photo enhancement & collage by Tremaine L. Loadholt
My lunch at 800 Degrees: Meatball Parm with house fries. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Hallway art: an image in my apartment building. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
One thing about us Southerners is that we love our chicken-fried steak, cheese eggs, and biscuits & gravy. Sunday breakfast at Mama Zoe’s, from Sunday, November 09, 2025. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Lost chickens? They were just hanging out in front of the fitness building in the same shopping center as Mama Zoe’s. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Lazy eye game H E A V Y. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
A sneak peek at the fit for last Saturday, November 08, 2025. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I purchased a scalp massager from my loctician when she was done with my hair. This tool has truly become one of my favorite things to use for massaging my scalp & keeping my locs from combining or curling into one another. I have curly/wavy hair, so that can be an issue for locs. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Zumi Tye was coming out for the morning, and breakfast is what Zuse craved. LOL! Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
The girls: Stacey-Lou, Bella-Rue, and Rylee-Blu, my best friend, Mook’s Boston Terriers. She sent a video of them watching TV to me, and I snapped a screenshot to capture them in a freeze-frame photo. I love these little rascals, and I was able to see them on Saturday, November 15, 2025. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt, c/o Mook’s video.
Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book& Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback(only) yet?
I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutrecent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
I am writing, compiling, and gathering poems in honor of my baby girl
Jernee Timid as a puppy. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt, Enhanced/Cartoonized by Google Gemini
I am working on a book of poems for Jernee Timid, in memory of her life and the incredible loss I’ve experienced. I am no stranger to sifting through poems; picking and choosing pieces that make the cut, and culling others that do not. These poems, though… something about not including them—the ones not making the cut, feels wrong—feels spiteful. I cannot explain it.
I wrote them during her life. I wrote them after she died. They all have a little bit of her wrapped up in them, and I can’t see myself not having them be a part of something as significant as a dedication to her time spent on earth alongside me.
The cover photo for the book is shown above. I decided to use a photo of her as a puppy, enhancing it using AI to give it a more cartoon-like feel, because the content that follows may or may not be easy to digest.
I have always written through pain—the death of my favorite companion is no different. I am writing through it. I will continue to write through it for as long as I need to do so. Jernee would understand that. Heck, The Little Monster might’ve even appreciated it.
There is a title (I will share it as time gets closer to the publishing date), and I plan to release the book in early February of next year, or toward the end of this year. It truly depends on how I feel. Who would I be if I did not publish a book of poems for the greatest love of my life? Not Tre, I can tell you that.
I will keep all of you updated.
Peace and blessings.
Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book& Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback(only) yet?
I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutrecent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
Zenith, my new plant baby. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Cozy (The view from one side of my living room). Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Cozy 2 (My new chair, the beige one, is as comfortable as it looks). Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Smoked Turkey Stew (smoked turkey, turnip & mustard greens, onions, bell peppers, red & new potatoes, cherry tomatoes, chicken broth, & Basmati rice). Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Antique. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Antiques. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
The Bluest Butterfly. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Zumi Tye’s Terrarium Adventure. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book& Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback(only) yet?
I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutrecent events with a previous place of employment, as it pertains to racism and discrimination, growth from the transition after resigning from that company, and life’s foibles and overall experiences. I welcome your visit.
my baby’s prints came today… her paws… I’d been waiting for them since the 12th of September. a lovely sympathy card accompanied the red pieces of art, neatly tucked behind them. every member of our vet’s office signed it. their words and names crowding the corners. I smile. I cry. I remember the best part of my life no longer exists.
I stand at the edge of my kitchen, shifting on the balls of my feet. I am shaking. I tilt my head to look at each print, and the smell of Jernee wafts across the room and lingers in the hallway. she’s still alive in me; she hasn’t let go. or, maybe I’m still holding on?
Zumi pats at the glass of its terrarium, bargaining for my attention, and I rush over to see what the fuss is about. food? check. water? check. I think it just wants to hear my voice, so I call its name in a sing-songy way to appease it. Zu-mi, Zu-mi, Zuuuumiiii. what a silly tortoise you are. it looks up at me and then walks with urgency to its hidey-hole. we all need comfort. tortoises are not exempt.
our home is quieter than it’s ever been. the tapping of paws are no longer morning gifts or late-night signals of an impatient senior dog who “had me at, hello.” I don’t know what I’m doing with this life of mine now, I’m just mulling on—making do.
I say that all I need is work—to keep busy, but I think I am telling myself this because I am afraid of what will happen to me if I sit down and focus on every passing thought of a love that was the greatest love I’ve ever known. where will I land if I give my heart permission to break and stay broken?
is there a name for people who are no longer whole without the pets they spent nearly two decades becoming one with? I don’t like having to answer the same questions every other day: “How are you?” How are you holding up?” “What are you doing with yourself now?”
I wish there was a perfect way to say, “I am cracking and folding into myself because somehow I no longer feel safe alone with my brain, heavy heart, and dying soul. somehow, I no longer feel safe in this body. something is not right. something is not right.
it’s more than losing Jernee, it’s all the ick of the world that is seeping into our skin, making our veins its home. we’re trapped. so, sometimes, I just need poetry when everything is wrong around me, and there’s no guarantee it’ll change.
I need poetry to help me remember who… and why I am.
A Cornered Gurl 
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