aging in the year of dying

Pictured Poem created by Tremaine L. Loadholt

aging in the year of dying

the dog is going blind
to her, as I fade into the
darkness of our hallway, I’m
a blot–an image she isn’t
sure is me

she’s smart–she waits
in the living room where light
lingers and only moves
when she sees me re-emerge
from the belly of
our home

I step back into her view
with a smile on my face
and greet her as If I
haven’t seen her before

I know what it feels like
to see something clearly
again

the chill

a favorite thing: Photo Credit by Tremaine L. Loadholt

when the chill hits at
just the right moment,
I cuddle up with my
old lady, sip on some
peppermint brew, and watch
my favorite animated Christmas
movies.

the crisp air outside can
stay bolted to the night–I’ll
find warmth nestling under
her love.
the phone bleeps, and it’s you.
your dimpled face appears,
and you tell me about something
that had you balled-over from
laughter, and the only thing
I can think of is how
amazing it would be
to be under or over
you, instead.

I lean back, sink into
the pressing of my chair,
and dream of a place where
Christmas lies on your lips
and I am opening you
as my gift, instead.

another favorite thing. The Old Lady, The Little Monster, Jernee Timid Loadholt. Photo Credit by Tremaine L. Loadholt