By Marybeth King, Ann Arbor, Michigan

It was the last time. Funny, I didn’t know that then, but I do remember it. Why is that? Why would I? It didn’t last long. She wasn’t there but for a few moments. Maybe she knew she was done. She didn’t need me anymore—at least not in the same way.

Maybe it was a good lesson in being a parent. Knowing that from the start—that as just born, wet, drippy, squirming—she had already pulled away from me. Her place of origin—inside, safe, ripe, ready, and real. She didn’t need that space anymore; she was ready to breathe on her own. To test the air. Fill her own lungs, by herself. Already without me.  But still pink and vulnerable, and needing a lot. Still needing my sore body, empty now, but filled elsewhere. Filled with food—rich, fat, and satisfying. Filled to the brim. So much that it hurt. Busting to feed her. Looking down into innocence, I had what she needed. That I could do that—sustain a life with my own breasts—brought tears to my eyes.

I brushed the hair from her forehead as she suckled away, oblivious to everything except wanting to nurse. But I was aware of everything. Her touch and breath, her every moment in my arms. My entire body and soul focused on sustaining her with my breast. I cooed a bit at her, brushed that wisp of blond hair back again, and breathed satisfaction so deep it pooled in great ponds. Life wiggling in its depths, clean and clear and restorative. Infinite possibility in my own arms, wrapped up, cuddled, silently nursing. Funny how I would remember that, and the very last time.

Her older brother had been different. He nursed constantly. Always ready, every two hours. I could set my watch by him. It was a drain in the end, though, and I gave up after a year. Cold turkey. I should have read the literature on that one. Weaning. It would have saved me a lot of grief and pain.

But my daughter? She was my second, and I let her go at her own pace. Every four hours she nursed, just like the old books said. Maybe she was just more efficient at nursing. It didn’t matter. I think I just knew she would be my last. I would have let her continue for a lot longer than those two-and-a-half years. But that was all she wanted.

She wore a soft pink outfit. Her hair was white blond and fluffy on her shoulders.  She wrinkled her nose when she laughed. It was too cute. The grey carpet was scratchy to the touch and the sofa against my back, hard. The sun was shining (the sun always shone in California). I watched her toddle in my direction. Did I ask her? Or did she come up herself? Nestled in my arms, lain across my lap, her growing legs and arms spilling out onto the floor. I lifted my shirt. Those last few precious sucks. She wasn’t there long. Didn’t seem so interested in the end, and I let her go. I know she doesn’t remember. But I will never forget it.