She had only breathed air for three minutes when she attached herself to my breast in the marvel of survival. I watched her motions carefuly amazed at the mysteriousness of her little body filling my arms in small pellets of light. All I could say was "mi corazon, mi corazon" as I held her and watched the face of her ancestors materialize. Hard to believe that I have given her sustenance and love this way for a year and a half.
Tonight at bedtime, she asks for "Tuti" (a derrivative of "Chi Chi") and looks at me with a smile and lifted brows. She knows how to charm sweet milk into her mouth. There is no difference between what I have given and what she has gained. The ying yang swishes about in the wholeness of our union. There have been moments that I despised nursing when her demand was so high and I was in an absolute hysteria because I was fraile and malnurished. She drank with impatience and authority with no mind to my withering. Other times, I stare at her ancient face and I quietly let all of my hopes fall into her suckling like one sees a pitcher fill a glass. These are the times when the hormones send us off to sleep and we fly into a magenta sky and witness the majesty of living. She is alive and nursing and sleeping. I am alive and giving, mothering and yes, loving. We are alive and flying. Dreaming. Breathing. Surviving.
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