My Life is a Black Knitted Sweater Dress

A day before my father’s funeral I bought the only piece of clothing I wore straight from the store. There was no time to rinse the woollen threads. Two things on my mind: Where did the garment come from? Where is my dad going? The dress can’t tell me. Tata can’t tell me. I imagined clear waters, clean hands, bright eyes, all bugs with wings of butterflies. How does it feel to have no body? I said goodbye and washed the black knitted sweater dress. It’s drying in the Sun until I wear it again.