Chilanga Sprinkles

We sat on the bed, two adult women in pajamas, the way teen-aged girls do at spend-the-nights. She’d called half an hour before, asking to come over. I had waited for her car headlights and opened the door as quietly as the squeaky hinges allowed. We’d padded up the stairs, her pregnant body moving with the exaggerated sway of near birth. We sat, at first speaking in near whispers that became louder and louder, until the bed shook as our bodies trembled and the sounds of pain broke the midnight silence. We ugly cried until we were as empty as we felt. Until our swollen sinuses muffled our hoarse voices, and our red eyes were nearly swollen shut. And I wondered if we two belong to the tribe of the emotionally stunted, unable to cope with the hardships of life.