I’m incredibly grateful to and for the people Scattered Words: Poems for Jernee Timid Loadholt is touching. My baby girl’s life was such a testament to my peace, and it makes me happy to know others want to read the poems specifically crafted for her life and death.
Pooja, at LifesFineWhine, shared an in-depth review of the book last night, and I am sharing it here with all of you. Please click the link below to be directed to the full review.
Thank you again, Pooj!
About the author A versatile Southeastern writer, Tremaine L. Loadholt has been published in literary journals, anthologies, and magazines, and has also published four books: Pinwheels and Hula Hoops, Dusting for Fingerprints, A New Kind of Down, and Séduire. She lives with her pleasantly silent Red-Footed Tortoise, Zumi. Her artistic expressions can be found at […]
you still linger… hard to forget you, but I want to.
hard to move on, but I had to.
you are the dry rot of towels, a smell that remains regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them.
constant without contact, abuse without words, the fact of life that dies to teach one more lesson while the heart is already breaking.
I had a dream that your oldest daughter found me, and hugged my neck so tight I lost my voice.
I didn’t know what to say or how to react… why was she here? I stood befuddled, amazed by how much she favored you, yet you always had your mark on your firstborn.
she walked, talked, and flashed her hands around the air like you, too. it was good but it wasn’t.
because the questions came… questions to which I had no answers, and could only say, “It was time for me to leave. I knew of no other way to keep myself from breaking.”
to a 20-year-old, this seems like abandonment and neglect, but it wasn’t, it isn’t. she hasn’t yet experienced pain so deep it keeps you from functioning in life—refusing to bathe or eat or love yourself.
she doesn’t know the sting of realizing you will never be the chosen one.
I left when this child was 15, and she wanted answers. “Ask your mother” seemed viciously vile. I always wondered what you told, are telling the children, what they think of me.
I don’t anymore. there’s no need. your oldest came to me in a dream, and she told me, “You are forgiven. I don’t blame you. I still love you.”
yet you linger… long… you are the dry rot of towels, a smell that remains regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them.
regardless of the number of times we wash and bleach them, you linger.
Remington and his handsome self. Photo Collage Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
Remy’s humans will be coming to get him later today. After spending eight days with this handsome boy, I will surely miss his presence in my home. I am going to bathe him, wash his blanket, walk him two more times, and enjoy the last few hours with him.
One thing is for certain: he has solidified my desire to continue to search for my new dog. It’s hard trying to find the perfect one for me again, but I know I will.
Remy
Busy ball of fur Gracing my home with sweetness Last day to share him
Teenage parenting couldn’t have been easy. What were you thinking when I came along? Your first child—a girl, mirror image of you in a tiny body… The community practice baby, Trial-and-error baby, First model of how to get it right and wrong.
That’s a lot of pressure for someone who’d just broken away from his own mother’s home a year before.
You did it.
In your own way, you fathered me in the shadows of spirited descendants showing you paths of least resistance. You fathered me when you wanted to give up, and when street basketball should’ve been more important. You fathered me without the knowledge of who I’d become…
Strong-willed Opinionated Open-minded QUEER
Divorce cracked our foundation, but it could never rupture our walls.
You still are the first man I ever loved, and you’ll probably be the last. My home away from home… if my heart aches and I need a voice of reason who will be honest, too, you’re a phone call away.
Have I been fathered well? I have a father who proudly speaks of his daughter—who doesn’t shy away from the topic of my sexuality, who has loved every pet as he does his human grandchildren, and still cooks for me when I visit home.
He listens. He paces his responses. He preaches to me as he would in his pulpit, but he doesn’t overshoot the message.
Whenever I hug him, I feel safe. And that is a feeling worth remembering for years to come.
That is a feeling I’ll always know and look for when trouble is lasting longer than it should.
To all the fathers excelling at what they’ve been given—a gift, to those rearing the children of their communities, their nieces & nephews, godchildren, and young men who’ve lost their way. To the women and men living without fathers, praying to still have the heart of humanity, I see you. I love you. Hang in there.
A Cornered Gurl 
You must be logged in to post a comment.