Quality Time with my Breasts

I've been trying not to think about it.

The lump.

You don't have a diagnosis yet, I remind myself. It could easily be another bored and lonely fibrocystic bastard fucking with your lymph nodes. Just wait 'til you get the mammogram. Let the experts decide if you should worry.

I've never had a mammogram. It sounds pleasant, like a candygram courier with a great rack, but the truth is when you open that door you don't get candy and cleavage, you get some stranger telling you to hold still while your tender innocent bosoms get crushed in a vice and you repress the urge to cry out while reminding yourself that this violation is voluntarily and for the greater good.
And you don't get a fucking lollipop afterwards, either, because you're forty-one, even though you'll cry like a four-year-old on the drive home.

So, yeah. Why worry? I'll just sit here in purgatory, picking my nose and staring out the window into the abyss, waiting for the day of judgment.

I won't think about the breasts and the buts.

The BUT what if it is something?
and the
BUT what if I'm forced to measure the value of my breasts against the value of my life?

I love them both and I don't want to choose.

"It was a no-brainer," said my friend with the double mastectomy.
It's not a no-brainer for me. These flamboyant flesh bags are a part of my whole self. I've never removed anything from my body except hair and nails and a useless mole.
Still got everything else. Teeth, tonsils, appendix, uterus.
Still got both ovaries, both kidneys.
Still got my gallbladder and dammit if I don't still got gall.

I want to keep me. All of me. If I had to lose anything, my breasts would be last on the list.

I'd rather lose a finger.

I think back on the petty disagreements we've had, my breasts and I. Fist fights and black eyes over jogging and speed bumps. Wrestling matches over sports bras and coat zippers; altercations that ultimately ended with me threatening a reduction and storming out of the room braless and shivering.

NEVER AGAIN, I tell my breasts.

I think of the good times. The good things. There are many. Free drinks and flattery and other fun consequences of the girls' good looks. Cozy places to warm my fingers on windy winter nights. Perfect pillows for dog and man alike.

Me and these mamas have shared every experience since the moon first rose over my womanhood.

Have I taken them for granted?

I don't care to contemplate how losing this part of my body would feel. But if it's in the cards, I don't want to miss out on the time we have left together.

As I sit here in uncertainty, I try to ascertain just exactly how one goes about spending quality time with her breasts.

I ask them if they want anything. A pretty new bra? A night out on display? A good groping from the drunken hands of a bar patron at closing time?

They laugh.

Yes, my breasts laugh. They have a better sense of humor about this than I do.

"Fresh air and sunshine will do just fine," they answer placidly. "A little dust and some desert wind."

Anything for you, my loves. Anything for you.

Just don't leave me.

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instagram: @se_pdx_crows
Art in NFT Showroom (The above image is an NFT if you want a print.)

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You, yourself, as much as anyone in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.

--Buddha