She had lain back for him and spread herself, opening her legs wide for her first man, showing him her most precious self; her secret soul… the thing that made her female.

And he’d entered her.

Taken her.

Impaled her with his lance and penetrated her to her very core.

The primal act of flesh within flesh.

They made love, her cries a perfect counterpoint to his groans; their passion joined as were their sexes. Finally, he’d spilled his seed deep within her fecund belly where it took root and grew. She cried afterwards, hot tears for the thing she’d lost and the thing she’d gained. Gone was the chaste girl, her place taken by a woman no longer innocent of the world.

So she continued to weep.

She cried again the day the cruel world took her man from her, his life lost in some far off country. Her hand over her swollen womb she felt the only part of him that remained to her, as the bitter tears fell.

She cried the day she bore the fruit that had been planted all those months ago. Hot tears of pain and blessed relief, of loss and fulfilment, as the child she’d carried within herself found its way into the world, both ruining and completing her.

As they lay her baby against her chest, her gaze ran into the future revealing a life of great joy and despair; of pain and pleasure, success and failure, happiness and heartache; everything that makes life worth living…

And for this she wept anew.

©Steve Richards 2014