There is a spot on his neck.
It always smells the same. Like sugar.
When I snuggle him each night before placing him in his crib, I bury my face in that spot attempting to burn the memory of that smell into my mind.
So that when he grows and that smell fades, I can easily recall it.
Smell triggers memory.
When he’s seven and smells of grass and baseball mitt leather, I want to recall this smell of sugar.
When he’s thirteen and smells of sweat and socks, I hope to smell his sweetness still.
When he’s sixteen and smells of rubber bands from braces and hints of a girl’s perfume, I hope to remember the sugary goodness of his nine-month self.
When he has left for college and I’m sitting on the edge of his bed, I pray that some part of my brain can remember this moment that smells sweet, like love.