Boobs

Home Affairs: Making sure everything's fine, weaning from antidepressants, the desire to smell like my son, a quick lesson in female anatomy, a cup of tea, and a question: do we want the same future?

We were on a boat. She pushed her right hand against my left breast with urgency. “What is this?” she shouted, as she looked for my nipple to pinch it. Instantly, a bigger hand held her arm. “No! Stop! You cannot do that.” It was her father. “But what is this?” she insisted, pointing to my breast. “Come on, sweetheart, leave Ale alone.” His male eyes were drowning in questions he couldn’t even speak. “It’s okay, I don’t mind,” I said. I smiled at her with the kindness only a shared experience grants you. “This is a breast or a boob… One day, you’ll have a pair of your own.”

This girl I’m telling you about is four years old. And she reminded me of a moment I’d forgotten about: The first time I was fascinated by a woman's body. I must’ve been four or five. She had freckles all over her pale body and hers was the name of a Disney princess. Clear images, printed in my brain. Her waist, her hips, and the million paths connecting both. The smell of her mane, dancing with the wind. The tone of her voice. And her cleavage, framing a silver necklace.

I wonder… Will this little girl remember me as vividly? I say I wonder, but a more honest thing to say would be: I hope.

My Lexapro days are officially over. And, let me tell you, it wasn’t an easy decision to make.