He doesn't smell like me any more. He is still beautiful. His eyes are still wonderful. But he smells different. Not so sweet. He is getting sick. I can smell it in his scalp and I feel my breasts filling in response. Active milk, strong milk, milk to settle his belly and to ease the pain in his throat. And he won't take it. It soaks my shirt impotently as he feeds from the bottle that won't soothe him and I cry.
Cry because he is hurting. Cry because I feel useless. Cry because of the pain of engorged breasts that I can't empty. Cry because I want to press rewind and start over.
It's is dark tonight. Rainy and cool. My favourite time. And I am so tired. So overwhelmed. Floating on a sea of emotion both hormonal and induced. A body clock that doesn't know if it's night or day. Skin that can't decide if it wants to be touched or cloaked in protective warmth. Eyes that fill far too easily.
The air is liquid. The rain has drenched everything, even breathing is like drowning. Each breath shuddering up and down like water in a rip and I feel myself being pulled along and then under until I gasp and want to just give in.
My skin is covered in prickles. The coolness of the wet breeze licking along it with too much familiarity. I am being assaulted with sensation I don't want. I just want to curl up, in a blanket and wait for the storm to pass.
Normally I would revel in it, the juiciness of the water sloshing out of gutters. The delicious smell of wet earth rising between the floorboards. Of children giggling in gumboots, splashing in puddles.
But I just want to be alone. Alone and cool and comforted.