The Fountain of You my Sweet Boy

The heavy wood door slams. "Mom, I'm home." All boy. Your ten year old self comes barreling into the kitchen. Fair skin flushed and spiky blond hair stands on tiptoe from repeatedly wiping the sweat from your forehead. The afternoon recess still radiates from your skin. Your heat touches me before I take you in my arms and squeeze. My air conditioned epidermis melts into your hot, damp flesh.

Leaning in, my nose kisses the top of your head. I breathe in - sunscreen, asphalt, sweat....and.... there it is ... the scent I search for. I settle in for as long as you will let me reveling in the aroma of you. What I call your baby smell grows fainter every year, but it's still there. It's concentrated where  one of your soft spots used to be.

Giving you the flexibility to survive the pressure of the birth canal, those gaps between your cranial bones allowed you to make the journey out of me and into the world. Over time they closed up, but it's where I instinctively go to breathe you in.

A fontanelle, diminutive of fountaine, from the Old French meaning "a small source, a fountain, a spring...a dent in the earth where a spring arises."

Yes, that is it.

Isn't it?

Your spring.

The essence of you.

Yes, it grows fainter every year, but I am your mother. I will always be able to find it. No matter how old or how tall as long as I can breathe you in, you are still mine sweet boy.