The Girls in the Park

Today walking, almost running, through the park, I became overly aware of my breasts. Let's call them boobs.

I could feel them full, round, and heavy. These breasts, I mean boobs, begged to feel the crisp sunshine filled air.

I imagined them on the beach, in the partial shade to protect them from the sun. Saw them in the mountain meadow, puckered to perfection in the chilly breeze.

These breasts, I mean boobs, felt full. They are full of love, full of maternal care, full of the desire to please and pacify. They are full of devotion and rage, full of shame and lust. All of me are contained in them.

There is fear in them. There is fear of loss, fear of aging, fear of cancer. I used to say it wouldn't bother me. Losing my...boobs. Or boob. But it would. It would. I know my mother faced this loss. She faced it with no reassurance of love. Of sexiness. I wonder what she held in hers.

I held them briefly in the park, while continuing to walk. Grasped them one after the other. Thought of your hands on them. How the girls liked your touch more than any other. How they became something more under your touch. How my whole being felt safe, carried, desired, and nurtured when you held them. Held my breasts, I mean boobs.

I mean the girls. Playing in the park in the crisp sunshine filled air.