Perfect Storm

 

I felt the darkness before I saw the clouds, a premature twilight that brought with it a telling breeze. The clouds hung thick, beginning to drip with the weight of the water they struggled to hold.

I grabbed A from the sofa where she was chewing on her favourite book and stuffed her squirming legs into rain trousers.

"We have to check the garden," I told her. "Before the storm starts."

We raced down the garden steps to see our zucchini flowering, spring onions shooting up to greet the rain. Isn't it funny how nature thrives in what we cower from? 

Thunder called for the rain as I showed her the pumpkins - "Just like you, my pumpkin" - and how much they'd grown. How much she's grown.

This time last year she was my thunder and I her storm. My breasts swelled and dripped, waiting for her cries to allow them to pour. She reached out for their nourishment, growing, flourishing with each pull of her lips. 

And I grew, too, through each storm. I grew more confident as a mother - and, by extension, more exhausted. My self-love grew, too.

My days of nourishing her with my body are coming to a close. My breasts don't 

swell with anticipation anymore; her cries no longer thunder only for me.

One day - probably this week - I won't have anything left to give her. But tonight, as the rain pours its goodness into our garden, we sit in the darkness and she pulls her nourishment from me.

Our perfect storm.