I felt her breath on my skin. She slept, face burrowed into my neck with my long hair draped over her. Her legs curled around mine, her body pressed against my side, her hand cupped my breast; we slept like cats wrapped up together.

At first the cancer didn’t change that, though she lost her breast, then her hair. Her scar pressed into me, through me; I tasted it on my tongue and traced it with my fingers. I photographed her, exposed it and we celebrated life.  

She felt the breast, the lost appendage. 

That’s how I feel her now.

 

© 2006 Joyce Tres All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.