Saturday, January 10, 2009

sniff


I walk into the nursery and lift him out of his crib in the semi-dark and hug him close, his fuzzy little head nestled into my right shoulder, its place, where it fits perfectly. He's such a momma's boy. His momma loves the fact that he is a momma's boy. I can tell he is in a snuggling mood so I stop, and sit on the edge of the big bed with the green quilt and rock him and he is still as I rub his back and kiss his head and stare at his hands resting on my arms and I inhale him like I always do but - something is different this morning -

I inhale again. No. I sniff down by his ear, then along the nape of his neck - no, it can't be. It was just here - I turn his head and try his left ear, the left side of his neck. I rub his hair, in an attempt to stir it. Furiously, I sniff and I sniff and I sniff...

And I accept the fact. It's gone. It really is gone.

The sweet, salty, precious, treasured scent is gone, and it's gone forever.
My baby no longer smells like a baby.

I rock him and rub his back and kiss the top of his fuzzy little head and feel a bit sad, in the semi-dark, on the green quilt atop the big bed in his nursery.

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