The moment my rambunctious pre-schooler left, I cranked the rattling furnace to full blast—let the dusty calm fill our heritage house. I stripped down my six-month-old so he was all rolls, all folds, milk white warmth, smooth like a polished river stone slipping through my fingers. I poured the apricot oil into calloused palms and massaged each limb. Clavicle. Scapula. Humerus. Wrist. His tiny hand in mine I wove my fingers through, his fingers stretching like a cat’s paw in pleasure. Thorax. Abdomen. Diaphragm. Pelvis. I cupped the crease of his thigh, slid my hands down his ankles, over and over, waves rolling ripples of flesh. Finally: the feet, with pressure on his arch, his toes fanned like a starfish. The whole time his eyes were swimming in mine. Without words he thanked me, his breath the supple sea. After his massage I scooped him under my nightgown and nursed him flesh on flesh. I gazed down at his fluttering lashes, his sucking slowly until sleep slipped into our beings.