Tag: Dogs

The Day After New Year’s Day Is A Puddle of Regret And Lost Memories

trE

rains falls–
beats the windows
like they stole
something
I walk the dog
in inclement weather boots
I’ve had for
eight years
we rush to
one side of the
neighborhood
then, to another
my head is a fireball
of indecisiveness
I want so much
yet I can’t remember
what those things are

a friend of mine
contracted this overgrown
virus that we’re all
so extremely tired of–
then, her mother,
her toddler . . .
same week, my cousin,
and another and another,
and . . . when will this
all end
I ask myself
the dog perches
on my lap
astonished by the
morning darkness
could this be an
oxymoron

the day after
new year’s day
is a puddle of regret
and lost memories
and I didn’t think
I’d wake up feeling
this way, but . . .
I woke up
didn’t I
I’m supposed to be
grateful–I better make
a short list
of the things I shouldn’t
have, yet I do
I better remember I’m
still here while
others took their
final bow earlier
in the week
I better get my
head in the game of
life and gear myself
up for the bullshit
that will surely come
so I can say
I made it through
this is my testimony
I made it through

My New Year’s Love and Me

trE

A Prose Poem

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.

Originally published in soliloque via Medium.

Universe, Do Your Worst

trE

I promise — I can take it.

Photo by Ernesto D. via Reshot

The workers come. They drill into the concrete in front of my building. I hear them cut through the ground. A drill here, some digging there. They disturb the dog.

She wakes up from a sound sleep, eager to locate the demons responsible for the momentary interruption.

As they carve into the ground below us, I think about you. Are you entertained? Did I make a good first impression? Was I too much — too little? Is my personality what you thought it’d be?

I didn’t have to think about things like this two years ago. The pandemic has me this way. I tell my therapist I am forever changed. She agrees. She says I’m not the only one. I know I’m not.

Universe, do your worst. I promise I can take it. It’s a statement I thought should be on a t-shirt. I’m still here. After all the damage — all the calculated drama — all the premeditated bullshit, I’m still here.

You speak of wanting children — a life with someone who holds his crotch every thirty minutes. I know this isn’t me. I feign not hearing you. I change the subject. We talk about beating the odds as black women, instead.

The workers tag the concrete. A yellow sign issues caution. The newness of their act intrigues me. A small leaf pokes through the wet-work. What does it mean?

The dog falls back to sleep.

Originally published in CRY Magazine via Medium.