An audio lamentation for Jernee Timid

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.

Musical Selection: Elton John—Your Song

Originally published in Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun on Substack.