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.
AI-Generated Image: A few trees draped in the colors of autumn. Behind them are a couple of houses, faintly noticeable in the background.
Autumn has gotten comfortable enough to undress, to finally tame the seasonal shift. It does this with the perfect amount of finesse. Autumn has gotten comfortable enough to undress. We find ourselves somehow stressing less, and this is truly the perfect gift. Autumn has gotten comfortable enough to undress, to finally tame the seasonal shift.
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutthe most recent 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.
AI-Generated Image: The photo shows People of Color standing defiantly outside, in the open, waiting for something to happen. Perhaps, change?
I AM tired of work; I am tired of building up somebody else’s civilization. The beer company did not hire Blacks or Puerto Ricans, so my father joined the picket line Steadfast and awful, my tall father Hit hard as a hailstorm. He’d leave marks.
You ain’t gonna be able to say a word If I land my fist on you. Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!
The mob arrives with stones and sticks to maim and lame and do me in. It has been a hard trudge, with fainting, bandaging and death. come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.
she say, she don’t know how she’d get along without Beulah show me someone not full of herself and i’ll show you a hungry person let snow soothe you make your healing water clear sweet.
What I want should not be confused with total inactivity. I bit sweet power to the core. How can I say what it was like? Remember what the world is like for white people.
This is my first Cento. I knew the topic I wanted to write about–knew the theme instantly (mental exhaustion from oppressive regimes and how the system is still designed to benefit the majority over minorities). I reflected upon the indomitable Writers of Color to be able to express the point I intended to get across. I researched writers, poems, and pieces of prose before compiling lines to build stanzas that, in my humble opinion, flowed seamlessly. I hope I created that.
Inspirational Works: Tired by Fenton Johson, All Poetry The Sign in my Father’s Hands by Martin Espada, Poetry Foundation Duplex by Jericho Brown, Poetry Foundation The Ballad of the Landlord by Langston Hughes, All Poetry If We Must Die by Claude McKay, Poetry Foundation Loose Woman by Sandra Cisneros, Genius To Black Women by Gwendolyn Brooks, Illinois Poet’s Forum won’t you celebrate with me by Lucille Cliftion, Poetry Foundation Stagerlee wonders by James Baldwin, Poetry Foundation Poem for a Lady Whose Voice I Like by Nikki Giovanni, Poetry Foundation Appalachian Elegy (1-6) by bell hooks, Poetry Foundation Keeping Quiet by Pablo Neruda, Quantum Eve Remembering by Toni Morrison, Poets.org If You Are Over Staying Woke by Morgan Parker, Poetry Foundation
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutthe most recent 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.
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutthe most recent 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.
It’s hard to explain, I create when I need to–when the weight of life sneaks up on me and wrecks my brain. There’s nothing like moving words from one section of your heart to another… nothing like massaging your scalp to push out stories that have been trapped inside for weeks; a literary birthing of art.
Background noise, not a deterrent… I block whatever doesn’t fill me. I ignore the unimportant.
A writer’s words will see the light even if darkness has a grip on their sleeve–they’ll find a way.
My neighbor is taken with me — smitten. It’s cute. I’m sure it could have been even cuter if I hadn’t warped her brain by revealing my age. I know what it feels like to crush on someone out of your league… out of your rank. 20 years my junior, I’ll pass. I can’t see myself tuning into someone I could have given birth to.
I never thought I’d see the day when I’d say, “I am sure I’m way older than you. How old do you think I am? My guess, you’re in your 20s, right?” And right, I was. The look of shock that swept across her face was madness to my spirit.
Should I grow more gray hair? Am I aging backward?
The creator in me wants to poem the night away, but the thinker in me allows the words to marinate–to gel. I have to find a way to build blocks with the stories I wish to tell… to wrap them around the stairway to heaven.
I think there’s a race passing me by, watching me side-step and break my ankles just to be rid of people who are distractions. I want more creative things, like the stickers on my laptop, the titillating words of a fellow author, and the sacred sunset that’s never on time.
More creative things… I crave them, and until I am fed, hunger will ravage me.
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-Book and Paperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak about the most recent 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.
A Cornered Gurl 
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