Breast of Life
A sliver of evening sun shines through the drawn shades of my bedroom window. Its peeping light catches glimpses of my milky skin as I lie bare, calmly and uncovered, on my bed. It highlights the hairs below my belly button that peek out from under my skin, resisting my attempts to shave them away. Unashamed, I let the light fall on my pale breasts. Their mellow peaks shine as the valley between them hides beneath their shadow. I carefully examine them with eyes and gentle hands, drawing soft circles around them with my fingertips, first clockwise, then counter. I press my nipples to feel their wrinkles and unique bumps. In this illumination, they embody miniature peaches: ripe and ready to be eaten.
I inhale a breath of gratitude and am taken to the many moments these breasts have yielded love and pleasure. My own fingertips, the warm hands and sweet tongue of a man have caressed them. They stand at attention, erect and reaching for the love they’ve been offered. Like a candle they flicker, and I can rest in love while they take charge, and with the sliver of sun, light the room.
In the sanctuary of my bedroom, I fall into a deep relaxation as I envision lips gripping my peach-like breasts. A masculine mouth soothes me with its careful kisses and I shut my eyes in a trance, almost sleeping. For several minutes I’m bound by the thoughtful movements of my fingers as they take the shape of this tender mouth. Suddenly, though, my sleep-like state is disrupted when the mouth becomes aggressive and I feel a harsh, piercing bite to my breast. Coming quickly to alertness, my heart sinks to the floor and I tremble in awe at the lips clenching me. With closed eyes I had felt the mouth of a man, but now, peering at my chest, I see and feel the lips of a baby girl, latching to me for warmth and nourishment.
Love and fear weave together into a vine that overcomes my entire being. My breasts, that once surrendered to the kisses of a grown man, provide nectar for the soft infant as she suckles them, and I am bound to her. While milk flows through my breasts, tears swell in my eyes and I gaze at the child with an expanding heart. Her tiny belly rises and falls with quick breaths and I’m captivated by the magnitude of its movements. It rises and I’m overwhelmed with love. It falls with an exhale, and I’m overtaken by the daunting fear of a life without her. Her round nose quivers and shakes her eyelids open, exposing her surprisingly familiar, blue eyes. I know these eyes like I’ve never known another pair.
A branch of confusion weaves its way into the vine of love and fear. I realize, looking into the face with clarity, that the eyes are mine. The hungry lips, that first belonged to a man, then to the baby, are my lips. I suckle the chest that was first offered to the masculine mouth and then to the innocent child. Only, it is not my breast, but my mother’s, and I weep like a baby in her embrace. She holds me with the strength only a mother can provide, and my heart grows even more full. I taste her milk and look up to her gracious, tired eyes as they fight off a slumber. In them, I see the love and fear that I felt for the baby just a moment ago. In them is the reflection of a man, tasting and caressing her young breast. In them is an infant, and the lips of all infants that will drink from their mother’s breast far beyond my own mother’s years. Her eyes hold the vision for the world and her breast creates it.
My mother’s warm eyes brighten with the reflection of a light, and I awaken to my room where the sun penetrates the insignificant curtain. Heated by the light of the sun, my breasts become the scenic peak at which the pleasure, pain, love, and perplexity of the world are viewable. Uncertain and small, I hide in the valley of their protective shadow.
