I couldn’t write last week because of all the dripping.
From my eyes, from my breasts.
As theirs did. Except I had a change of clothes and my baby to soothe me and mine.
I still had my dignity.
I couldn’t speak last week because of all the confusion.
From my head, from my heart.
As theirs was. Except I had my three children here to keep me company, and wine.
I still had my comfort.
I couldn’t think last week because of all the ache.
Chills reaching and running from my toes to my spine.
As theirs did. Only I had my husband and warm blankets to warm me, I was still fine.
I still had my peace.
My shirt is wet each morning with milk just this past week, knowing, reminding me on an evolutionary level, things are not balanced.
I grew up understanding family was the one thing nobody could ever take away, and I took great heart in that. That was pride.
So tears run down my neck thinking of their drenched chests. Still.
For having taken away their dignity, their comfort, their peace and their pride.
For having set back our evolution.
History mustn’t repeat itself, they told me, too.
So why am I still dripping?