i'm the only one who's given him a bath. i cherish the touch of his butter skin against my mama-worked hands; my palms linger in fat-roll creases like his wrists are smiling, and i grin right back. i test that water tepid and smell that soap lavender, and i just know these are my moments to drink right full.
i wrap him in a big, fluffy towel the way eternity would, because our now is all i have, and i want to remember the tiny holding when he's too big to wash and wear. i tender-wipe off lingering droplets, and tender-coo him into snapping pajamas all warm.
he lies between us at night, but really, he's still all mine-mine to let down milk and mine to curve a "c" around in groggy half-awakes. the world is ours at 3 a.m., though neither of us sees beyond the other. he drifts back into milky sleep, my starry child, and i claim the details exclusively: don't grow up yet.