breasts

Antonia Albany

It’s cold when I get up during the night to pee. Passing the bathroom mirror, I gasp at my nude reflection in the yellow moonlight. Where there were once two full breasts, there is now just one and an angry, red scar on the left side of my chest which lashes out like a lioness from her pedestal. 

I am broken.

I return to bed and sit on the edge, tears mixing with resignation. A hand reaches out and strokes my lower back. “It’s okay,” my husband whispers as he coaxes me to return to his side. I am whole again in his loving embrace.