About a month after my wife died, maybe it was two months, my mother and father reportedly rented a U-Haul, loaded it up with everything that was in our apartment, and gathered me up, and brought me home. I say "reportedly" because those days were a blur. If I had any coherent thought during those months, it was visions of my wife, and then the reality of a large, black void that was now my life. I was lost elsewhere.
My parents did everything they could think of—from taking me to doctors who prescribed little bottles of pills to bringing every person I'd ever cared about to my bedside, but nothing worked. I wasn't coming back.
My mother, Laura, would rub my back, and lean over me, whispering into my ear, the flesh of her lips grazing my earlobes, sending chills into my brain. Sometimes, exhausted, she would lie next to me in bed, spooning me against her body. I could feel her breasts pressed up against my back as she stroked my arm. Willing me, I suppose, back to life.
She had given birth to me once, and now it seemed as if she was ready to give birth to me again, as if she could expel me from the darkness back into the light with sheer will.
I was her favorite child. It had remained unspoken all of these years, but everyone knew she had a fondness for me. My brothers and sisters would tease me and I would protest—but a part of me always knew that they were right.
"David," she whispered, the tip of her tongue grazing my ear.
Her voice was almost a purr as she pressed her pelvis against me. I don't know what it was, whether the sound of longing in her voice or the pressure of her warm belly against me, but I felt myself pushing back against her. It was a subtle movement, but she felt it, and the hand that she had on my bicep quickly found my thigh.
I unfolded my body slowly, stretching, and turned over to face her.
She is a beautiful woman, and I gazed into her face for awhile, feeling myself stir at the long lashes that framed her eyes, the curve of her nose, and the fullness of her mouth. I wanted her.
I placed the palm of my hand against her cheek and stroked her smooth, cool skin, my own eyes open, looking back into her without blinking. My eyes were her eyes. I wanted to crawl inside them. I wanted to crawl back inside of her body. I reached down and rested my hand on her hip and pulled up her nightgown swiftly. I wanted to slide between her legs and bury my head there. Smell the musk all woman have. I closed my eyes and imagined her throwing her legs apart, grasping my head, and bringing my head to her openness. I imagined slipping my head up inside her, pulling my body behind me, feeling myself enclosed safely within her womb. Her belly would be stretched enormously over my body, and because I dreamed, I dreamed that it gave her great pleasure to be pregnant with me again. She caressed her great full breasts, beads of milk like pearls on the ends of her nipples. She rubbed her belly, marveling at what it contained.
She whispered my name again and it brought me back to the woman lying next to me.
I had pulled her nightgown all of the way up to her waist. She was naked and exposed. I slid one leg between her legs and pushed her legs apart. My cock was throbbing between my legs. I rolled over onto her in one graceful turn of my body, my cock pressed against her, snug between her legs and warm pussy. I looked down into her eyes to make sure she wanted me. She had her eyes closed—but she was gripping my shoulders, pulling me down against her. How long had it been since I'd spoken to my mother? I couldn't remember.
