I have my past with me when I capture images of the world’s intense measurements of weather and all its inconsistencies.
we gather in the small belly of brooks and creeks, carrying misdeeds and moments of judgment with us. to unveil the depths of our weakest acts, I snap the places I’ve been and the things I see.
everything is a solid reminder of what has been and of what’s to come. I know you remember who I was but do you know who I am?
the broken twigs of a lonely tree send spry memories to my brain and I weep in the winter wind.
you have found your place in my heart; etched into my mind, permanently placed on the folds of time and I cannot offer you a pass or release you from your current imprisonment.
you once had all of me but now you own a few months out of the year and I am battling two different versions of myself to get those months back.
winter came for her just due and all I have is a trite recollection of your lips on mine and fingers hidden in places called private and alcohol singed split ends that never found their home on your pretty little head.
I walk with the wild breeze and talk to the sleeping sun. you were my once-upon-a-time and while I do miss you, I still have these photographs to keep me company.
they’re a much better replacement than that sly and witty smirk that never seemed to leave your unforgettable face.
yes . . . I said it — I miss you, but let that be our little secret. everything else was.
I have become glutinous; sticking to my home — fearful of going too far away from it. I question every errand that needs attention. How important is it? How much longer can I go without it? Is the purchase cost-effective enough to simply have Instacart drop it off after I fill up my cart via my favorite stores instead? Do I really need to go to the store myself?! Do I?!
I am growing indecisive during this pandemic season and I know it has a lot to do with how scary this virus is and how massive it has become.
I went from a woman working in an imaging facility, screening patients for COVID-19 symptoms to yearning for a workspace from home and actually attaining that and now . . . Now, home is more than just where I work — home is everything. Everything is here at home.
I still get anxious but not nearly as bad as I did on days I knew I had to be in the public eye — around other people. It’s easier to curb my anxiety . . . I have a bit more control over it. I can subdue it and move forward and do what needs to be done on a daily basis.
At home, I am not running away nor do I have the urge to run away from my fears. But I do recognize the magnitude of what has taken place. I am cognizant of the fact that it could be me, my family, or a close loved one (again) pushed toward their demise from this virus.
Home is where I sit with the neverending debate going on in my head; “do I get vaccinated or not?” Currently, there is no winner. I think there will be one soon.
Two of my succulents; re-potted and were temporarily placed directly in front of my balcony door. I’ve since moved them to be alongside two more of my plants. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
After one year of dealing with the pandemic, I am learning how to be easier on myself. I have new ways to bring joy into my life. I find peace in the simplest things and I hold on to it. I have taken a liking to plants, succulents in particular, as they were a gift to me from my team at my previous job.
I talk to my plants. I name them. I open the blinds in the living room and kitchen and let the love from the sun’s rays wash over them. I water them. I check their soil and preen and primp them. I am ensuring the health and wellness of living things other than myself and my dog, Jernee.
It feels good.
It feels like an accomplishment I did not know I needed to accomplish. It feels essential.
I have what I need . . . Food. Water. Shelter. Books. Laptops. Music. A bossy Chorkie who cuddles with me on cold nights and gives me wet-nosed kisses that turn into paw pats on my face — everything is here at home.
After one rigorous year of quarantine, various mandatory restrictions, and only visiting my closest loved ones every few months, I have a hard time envisioning what the next year and the year after that will have up their sleeves.
And will I be able to remove myself from home? Will I lose the adhesive I’ve grown fond of relying on when I can stray far away once again?
She laid his suit out on the bed. A freshly pressed blue shirt. His favorite speckled necktie. Blue and black cufflinks.
He would look great at his final foray into the crowd. She’ll remember him fondly. His crooked smile. His hopeful laugh. The nasty nights of arguing. So many nights of arguing.
He never saw the machete she wielded in her hand. His last words were, “I never meant to . . .”
She doesn’t miss him as much as she thought she would.
What do you think about when you reflect upon the message delivered in the famed “I Have a Dream” speech by Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Does it cross your mind that we would be fighting for the same wishes, wants, and necessities shared within its lines? Do you sit and wonder about “how far we have come” and “how far we still have to go”? Where do you go? Where does your mind take you when you hear the depth and breadth of his voice as those words were uttered on August 28, 1963?
I can tell you what it does to me — how it shifts the very essence of who I am. How it enforces the fears I hold within me regarding the America of today. I feel no safer today than I did ten years ago. In fact, I am more on edge in the year of our Lord, 2021, than I have ever been. If I had to guess, I would venture in saying I am sure the late Dr. King would have never envisioned this America fifty-eight years later. In essence, it is the same America he was brutally killed in while trying to bring about a massive change in a peaceful way.
We have come a mighty long way. We have a mighty long way to go.
The things that make America beautiful to me can be easily overshadowed by the bloodstained countrysides, history of enslavement, police brutality, lack of financial support and assistance for those below and slightly above the poverty line, anyone voicing All Lives Matter, constant display of inequality, and now, the alarming rates at which Black people and People of Color are becoming infected and dying from the Coronavirus, COVID-19.
It is the same America where the very mention of “reparations” makes those in favor of white supremacy flinch and toot up their noses.
Is this the America someone thinks about when they dream of a better place?
I highly doubt it.
My sister Bless and a group of her colleagues at Clayton State University, located in Morrow, Georgia, created a video based on the “I Have a Dream” speech, and in it they share what they dream about for the America they want. They express themselves with vigor, intelligence, worthiness, and poise. They display exactly what it means to voice your opinion without being offensive but with a stern delivery.
These are the faces of the future. These are the hearts that are breaking as they watch the same America Dr. King watched, the same America I have watched, and the same America many others before me died fighting for but did not gain anything from it.
“In a sense, we have come to our nation’s capital to cash a check.” A check we know may be counted void or stopped upon seeking its payment. A check that would never ever be enough for the pain endured, the lives lost, and the depletion of energy as the fight continues. A check that would be a constant reminder of something given to us in order to shut us up. We are coming for what is due and the youth are on the front lines.
“We refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt.” There is hope within these lines. Hope for significant change. Hope for an America, that when we think of her, we will not feel shame. Hope for allies who will speak up and fan the flames instead of finding comfort in their silence and safety behind their locked doors. Hope for the day that such speeches will not have to exist.
I am honored to share with each of you the voices of several Black students who know the value of their lives and those lives of Black people and People of Color who struggle to be seen, heard, loved, respected, cared for, and celebrated in an America who has yet to open, really open her eyes.
Their message is one of strength, determination, will, and the understanding of a man’s dream that never came true and how one day, we hope that it will.
How one day, we hope there is more love thrown upon us than accusations, distrust, neglectful behavior, and racist acts. We deserve it. We have fought for it.
And now, we demand it.
Students of Clayton State University. Keep an eye out for these young ones. Their voices will not be silenced. My sister, Bless Loadholt, is the second speaker in the black polka-dotted top and the gold necklace
Sometimes, I miss it. Sometimes, I don’t. You know . . . Us. It doesn’t hit me as hard as it used to when I was crawling through my twenties or attempting to climb my way through my thirties. But on those dreary, cold days where the wind is blowing harder than the predicted chill, I find myself lost in thoughts of you . . . of Us. And I do drift to a place where it’s not so easy to leave — the comfort of it can be damaging.
And who would blame me at this point? Good memories are hard to come by these days and I have enough stored up so I can pull from them at will. Isn’t that a blessing? Isn’t that something for which to be thankful? You would say so. I know this. You saw God in everything including the devil that wrapped himself up in us. You would call us golden if someone gave you the floor long enough to gloat.
I find myself lost in thoughts of you . . . of Us.
I didn’t mean to stray so far away but I was hungry — in search of other ways of getting fed and the easiest route was the one that led to strings being plucked by long, slender fingers and a voice like crème brûlée— sweet & smooth. I stuck to those things. Tangible and present. Different from what I had begun to see in you.
I could never deny the fire burning in us. We stoked it for years, poking at it with thick sticks, setting apart the embers. We had learned how to pull back just in time to save ourselves from becoming charred — scarred for life or disposable.
You saw God in everything including the devil that wrapped himself up in us.
We were music. Classical? Rhythm & Blues? Funk? Maybe we were jazz. The ease of each tune dancing across a room or a verse of scats uttered quickly by chocolate-covered lips. We lasted for hours on play. The B-side was the best side. The B-side was my best side.
Back and forth. Over and over. We had our best days and our worst days and some would say we were like that one Lenny Kravitz song until we were finally over. No more violins or bass riffs. No more snare taps or saxophone rips. No crooning or gyrating at the mic . . . We were — until we weren’t. We grew until we couldn’t.
I was hungry — in search of other ways of getting fed.
And it took so long to get to that place. What were we waiting for?
A Cornered Gurl 
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