Language of Touch
Asher seems to enjoy our moments alone together, curled up in the big bed, post shower. His skin is damp and fresh, toes wrinkled. His little mouth is open wide, waiting for the nursing that comes next. He grips my body with tight little fingers, sometimes squeezing too hard. He doesn’t know about hurting yet. He is smooth and plump, hair downy and thick, now, I see. Feet wiggle and toes grasp as though they don’t yet realize they aren’t fingers, too. Eskimos have got nothing on Asher’s kisses. Big, slobbery, whole-face rubs tell me I’m his beloved. His arms go around my neck and he pulls the back of my hair so hard I’m forced to come close. His mouth tries to close over my nose, his eyes squint and he squeals his urgency to hold on. I think it’s instinct; he clutches at me for safety, food, and love. He doesn’t judge me. He’s comfortable in my curves. They are home to him. We are nose to nose, cooing at each other, with nothing in between us, until a little foot intrudes and he brings his toes to his mouth. He is a ball of roly-poly boy, folding himself any which way, practicing and exploring. He smiles when I warm the sweet-smelling lotion and rub it into his skin. Asher accepts his massage as if it were his due; the Universe bestows pleasing experiences on him as a matter of course. He expects it, and this makes me happy because he knows no other negative experience. He babbles and hoots and hollers. His breath quickens and blue eyes sparkle when I produce the silk and let it flutter down on him. He knows the game. The silk is warm to our touch and he pulls it off his smiling face. He’s expecting my greeting and he delights in it as if we’ve been apart longer than just the moment he’s been covered. When the breeze blows through the window, he sucks it in greedily. Fresh air, soft bed, warm cuddles, and milk: these sensations define our alone time. He complains when I dress him.
