Well, I Can't Remember Not

Mo Nighean Donn," He Whispered," Mo Chridhe. My Brown Lass, My Heart." Come To Me. Cover Me. Shelter Me. A Bhean, Heal Me. Burn With Me, As I Burn For You.

This Was Nonsense, He Thought. The Need Of Her Was A Physical Thing, Like The Thirsty Of A Sailor Becalmed For Weeks On The Sea. He'd Felt The Need Before, Often, Often, In Their Years Apart. But Why Now? She Was Safe; He Knew Where She Was - Was It Only The Exhaustion Of The Past Weeks And Days, Or Perhaps The Weakness Of Creeping Age That Made His Bones Ache, As Though She Had In Fact Been Torn From His Body, As God Had Made Eve From Adam's Rib?

When You Hold A Child To Your Breast To Nurse, The Curve Of The Little Head Echoes Exactly The Curve Of The Breast It Suckles, As Though This New Person Truly Mirrors The Flesh From Which It Sprang.

For So Many Years, For So Long, I Have Been So Many Things, So Many Different Men. But Here," He Said, So Softly I Could Barely Hear Him, "here In The Dark, With You… I Have No Name.

...well, If Women's Work Was Never Done, Why Trouble About How Much Of It Wasn't Being Accomplished At Any Given Moment?