Breasts

Written by Morgan Broom

Just before she retired for the night, my mother used to sit on the edge of her bed, naked, with her nightgown lying over her lap. She faced the large flaking mirror that sat on her bureau. Her reflection was clear but whatever she saw was not in that mirror. She sat silent, lost in thought, and unmoving except for her right hand, which cupped her left breast. Her fingers gently, rhythmically stroked her nipple. I think what she did had more to do with comfort than with sexual pleasure.

The connection between sex and breasts I learned about from my older brothers and the soft porn magazines they hid between their mattresses. Later, I discovered the historical romance novels in the back of the public library. Cream colored breasts were always described as spilling over a man's dark hands. Once, after reading a passage that left me breathless, I stared down at my small brown breasts and wonder if a man would ever find me desirable. At some point, years after graduating from college, I realized that it didn't matter what a man thought. It matters what I think about myself.

I think that I have lovely breasts. Though they will never spill over a man's hands, they are sensitive to his touch. They are brown and warm. They are a part of me. As I continue to learn about myself, I continue to explore this part of my feminine form. More importantly, through my photography and writing, I celebrate who I am and what I am. And when I do, in word or image, I cannot help but think of my mother.