In your daydreams, you are not a mother. Your belly is still smooth and tight, and your breasts, though still heavy with age, are less so. Those white lines radiating around your curves, gone. Men lap you up. They are not scared off by commitment because you threaten none. You are the siren island men crash upon, but they always recover, and you are proud of them for this. (Are you?)
But this daydream always goes south. After the sailors have left, who sits with you on your island in the sun? Who watches Sagittarius rise with you? Who watches it fall? Don’t you miss your girls?
I know you do, my girl. Go to section N.