Dead Weight

Forget everything you’ve heard about dead weight. It’s all lies. Bobby’s a big man. Six feet, three inches, broad shouldered, thick as a Frigidaire, but I scooped him up off the altar floor like I would a fallen baby. I held him against me, rocked him in my arms. Light. Easy. In death Bobby was dandelion fluff, butterfly wings. I felt the last of his heat rippling through my wedding dress. Do you remember walking through childhood carnivals clinging to a single red helium balloon bought from a man who looked down on his luck? Do you remember wandering...

Read More