Pancake Breasts - by Rohini Mauk
The writing prompt was simply: “The judging sun”. I don’t know how to use Substack very well and lost the profile of the person who shared the prompt. So, to whoever you are, thank you!
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Each wave lapped farther and farther away from her toes, a sure sign she needed to peel herself off the beach towel. Not bothered by the creaky feeling in her tanned skin or the flecks of dried-out saltwater dusted on her lips, this uninterrupted evening felt separate from time.
“It’s not so complex to be middle-aged, now is it?” she wondered.
In her eyes, the way her breasts flopped down like pancakes left something to be desired. In the merry-go-round dance of pregnancy, breastfeeding, and weaning, her body shapeshifted and stretched farther than self-compassion could reach.
“I’m like a hollowed-out peach,” she thought quietly.
Once ripe and juicy, now barren and mostly empty.
Aside from her sagging breasts, the mirror reflected wisdom, too, that much she could see. A gentle smattering of eye wrinkles, the strong sculpt of her shoulders and biceps, earned by carrying and caring for her four babies.
It had been nineteen years since her youngest was a baby. So, here she found herself, alone on the beach, with hot, creaky skin and an existential, wandering mind.
Getting up from the towel, she stretched towards the sun. Eyes closed, breath steady.
On the exhale, “shivoham” left her lips.
A Sanskrit mantra she had been gifted by her teacher three years ago, it was meant to remind her that she, too, existed perfectly within the beautiful landscape she saw before her. Some days, that concept landed; often, it did not.
Today, the turquoise ocean seemed to vibrate with the sound:
“shivoham”
Before she knew it, she was tip-toeing toward the receding shore, gaining speed and giddiness with each stride.
“Oh my, I’m alone”
“I’m alone. Oh, wow.”
The decades of caretaking sloughed off her shoulders as the sand fizzled hot on her feet, bounding at once towards the Croatian sea. She began to giggle, noticing how her aged body still galloped to a rythym hidden beneath the current. She was attuned to the very pulse of life, still, after all this time.
With a gasp of air, she plunged into the sea. Foaming, frothing, undulating, it welcomed her with joy, pancake breasts and all.
“Oh my GOD!” she cackled.
Prickly goosebumps rose on her arms, the shock of the water making itself known on her flesh. This aliveness within her body, oh, how she had missed it.
Diving below the surface, kick-twirling her legs like a mermaid, the world went blissfully silent, cocooned in the womb of the Sea. Pulling herself further beneath the spray, she acknowledged the weightlessness of her limbs. Just for a moment, she felt free.
Shivoham found her there, beneath the waves. This idea of oneness she had studied for decades felt so straightforward here—in the sea. The water caressed every bit of her Motherly body, kissing and loving her until she emerged anew.
With silvered wisdom flecking her hair and the strength of her family in her bones, she floated blissfully to the top.
“I suppose it’s all alright. Isn’t it?” she mused
I shouldn’t think of myself so harshly;
it’s as silly as the flowers refusing to bloom for fear of a judging sun.
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