There are those who bathe their children every night at 7:00. Who find comfort in small shampooed heads.
And clean fingernails.
Whose routine never wavers.
Are not those people.
Or…let’s see…we’ve given up trying to be those people. Because we can’t keep up.
Last night in his bottom bunk, I lifted the shoulders of my unshowered son. I bent my nose against his naked chest and breathed.
Breathed in my boy.
Breathed in my boy who smelled like grass and biscuits. And salt.
My boy whose day had not been rinsed away with water but whose day rested, instead, on his skin like a memory.
A memory of today.