Bear — Here Cums The Bride Dancing

She is not trained. She is widowed. Three summers ago, her real mate was shot for stealing honey from the magistrate’s kitchen. Now, she dances for stale bread and the echo of a lullaby. Each step is a memory. Each grunt, a whispered hymn.

The bride dips. The groom stumbles. Together, they turn in a clumsy, heartbreaking circle. here cums the bride dancing bear

The dusty gramophone needle scratches to life. A wheezing waltz spills into the sawdust-scented air of the traveling carnival tent. And then, the canvas flap rips open. She is not trained

It lands on her nose. She doesn’t eat it. She holds it, ever so softly, between her teeth. Now, she dances for stale bread and the echo of a lullaby

She is the Dancing Bear.

Here cums the bride.

She doesn’t walk. She lumbers. A massive silhouette against the setting sun, draped in a veil of torn lace and wilted daisies. Her fur is the color of muddy honey, matted with confetti and old champagne. A rusted tiara sits crooked between her small, dark eyes.