Skin

It's his comfort, his security. He climbs up on my lap, puts a finger in his mouth and reaches out his other hand to stroke my face and neck. The touch of my skin to his calms him. He nuzzles his face into my neck or places his forehead against my cheek.

He can only fall asleep when he is touching my skin. As he dozes off, his fingers dance over my face touching my eyes, nose or cheek. I can tell he is asleep when his hand lazily brushes past my neck before resting on his chest.

He pokes my belly and then his. Laughing at the similarities, the roundness, the softness. His eyes light up when he realizes our belly buttons are the same. Poke momma. Poke Lion.

My skin also bears the signs of his love. Bruises from excited or frustrated bites. The caresses of my face can turn into slaps or pinches. "No, no. Be gentle", I tell him. "Show momma love." The hits turn back to touches. The finger returns to the mouth. Calmness returns.

My skin is his comfort, his security. His skin and my skin are one and the same. It's what he needs now to feel safe.

There will come a time when he places his hand on my arm and he notices the differences. Dark cocoa brown and light peach are not the same. My skin will bear the wrinkles of time, his the softness of youth. How will I explain?

I will take his hand and touch it to my face. I will remind him of this time. I will remind him of the comfort and security he found. I will remind him that the touch of my skin to his was how we bonded, how we came to love and trust each other.