BREASTS

Finding myself standing in the supermarket in only my underpants, my breasts exposed, was shocking, inappropriate, inconvenient at best. I tried to act nonchalant as if this was ordinary in the hopes I would be less conspicuous. I tried to steady my breathing, crossed my arms across my chest to hide the flesh of my breasts beneath my arms. At least that's how the dream went.

I wakened relieved, able to exhale with a tremendous gust, happy that I was suitably attired in a nightgown, tucked safely in my bed, a long distance from the supermarket. I thought of my breasts as I waited for sleep to pull at me again.

Breasts may be the one single thing that makes me aware of my woman-ness. Not in a sexual porn star way, but breasts are a measure of me. They are the signal of most changes in a woman's body.

Born without breasts, all too often we die without them. The changes recorded in our breasts become the measure of our pasing, proof we have indeed made the journey. At birth, we are rather homogenous from the waist up, gender non-specific so to speak. We are able to collide and bump into one another with little regard for femininity or masculinity. The path alters though, all too soon, and we come to a fork in the road and life changes.

Our breasts begin as meaty thickness. The muscle on our chest is more defined now. Greater skills have been acquired as we stretch beyond jumping rope and rocking baby dolls and our experiences, more diverse, have added to the muscle there. Our chest almost whispers of womanhood but only almost for there still lingers an innocent notion of gender-less.

Almost over night, the tissue in our breasts spring to life in a quick determined announcement, a loud voice really. "I am a girl!" Our breasts are firm, speak for themselves, bold, want to be seen, willing to show off. They go where we go without hesitation, leading never following. Sometimes they frighten our mothers who insist we cover them more adequately and sometimes they alarm our fathers who all too often look away.

Breasts throb just before we have our period as though a warning sent to have us prepare. They ache and tighten when we become pregnant, often the very first sign. When we diet, breats are the parts of our body that cheer us on, usually the first to shed unnecessary fat.

Creation comes filled with change, emotion. The mere hint of pregnancy and the shift is immediate. Our breasts enlarge and take on a song of nourishment. They demand us to pay heed to their purpose rather than their playfulness. They are tender, needing care. When we first hold our infant there, the pain gives way to relief and we see what was intended. The smooth skin stretching over our breasts reveals the veins that keep them nourished. Any baby's voice releases the dam and the flood is powerful, we can feel it surging to our toes. Our breasts are engorged for a time, as we tentatively hold this new child, a bit unsure, uncertain, but as we become competent and comfortable the tissue softens, accepting the challenge.

The years go by and our breasts remain fairly static, change is minimal, not easily detected. Then we discover our breasts have softened just as we have, accepting the bumps and disappointments in our journey along with the celebrations and hurrahs. They take a position somewhat lower, less bold, a little quieter and the line from our underarm is a smooth gentle slope. They are restful, not needing much in the way of frolic, not wanting to stand up and be noticed, but they comfort us like an old friend and we hope we never have to part, hope cancer does't take that which tells our story, that which remembers who we were and knows the road we travelled.

by W A Stewart, December 7, 2009