My hand trembles as I comb my Afro hair with a sturdy comb my husband gave me when our daughter was born. The comb drops on the floor. I get down to pick it up. Limbs that allowed me to get down and stand up over eight decades betray me. My body folds onto the floor. Every breath I take hurts my ribcage. When the funeral people enter my hut where my husband’s body lies, I stand up clutching the comb with wobbly legs. I put a black scarf over my head.
Adera - A New Short Fiction
Adera - A New Short Fiction
Adera - A New Short Fiction
My hand trembles as I comb my Afro hair with a sturdy comb my husband gave me when our daughter was born. The comb drops on the floor. I get down to pick it up. Limbs that allowed me to get down and stand up over eight decades betray me. My body folds onto the floor. Every breath I take hurts my ribcage. When the funeral people enter my hut where my husband’s body lies, I stand up clutching the comb with wobbly legs. I put a black scarf over my head.