I approach the room, alone, not fully understanding what I was walking into — enshrouded by the innocence of a child. The handstitched ducks on the pockets of my yellow dress cross the threshold with me.
I take a few apprehensive steps. Something captures my attention. Mesmerized, I stand still. A walking version of the Pieta slowly moves in my direction. She is held, cradled, by a beautiful woman whose skin is so black, it resembles polished ebony — the kind children wear on a pin with bright orange pieces of coral to ward off evil in Cuba.
She is wrapped in a white sheet. A Greek goddess. Her face obscured, I catch a glimpse of a patch of black hair rising from the side of her head. Her toga slowly glides on the sterile linoleum floor as it inches its way to me.
She’s turned in my direction, forced to face me. We hold a gaze that speaks a thousand words.
I stand motionless waiting for her paralyzed arms to summon an embrace. Unable to speak or move, tears convey her love, sorrow, and regret.
