The Sacred Dance of Grief

darla k

The sun was burning my neck, but I didn’t care. I sat hunched over, with my head down on a hard steel chair. It was frieken hot, 90* at least. My legs were slick with sweat and my thick, black, crushed velvet dress clung to my body, suffocating me like a boa constrictor enjoying its last meal. I’d just given birth and I did my best to squeeze into a dress that would make me look as “normal” as before, regardless of the baby weight I’d put on. Thank God the dress was sleeveless, but now the scorching sun was cooking me alive. I felt like I could barely breathe.

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