The Smell of Apricot Oil Still Unhinges Me

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.