He kissed my lips, my chin, my cheeks, my eyes. He kissed me everywhere, then wound his arms around me and buried his face in my neck.
I rubbed my hands up his back, then wrapped him in my arms and crushed him to me when his body shook and the tears dampened my skin.
I nuzzled my cheek against his head and slowly massaged the nape of his neck. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
I knew he wasn’t sad right now, that he was just overwhelmed with a lot of emotions and trying to process them.
I knew he was happy because he told me every day.
And I knew he loved me, even if he never said it with his lips. Everything he did was with love and care and affection.
Every part of him had been made to love every part of me.
Dad would be sohappy for me. I hoped wherever he was, if he was watching over me, he was at peace now knowing I wasn’t alone anymore.
I’d found someone special.
He was eager and adorable, always positive and enthusiastic and unendingly curious.
A little tiny sun that had wandered into my home, lighting up every dark corner.
He was just…he was perfect.
I was going to protect him from now on. Give him everything he needed, everything he never had. Teach him everything he didn’t know.
He was mine.
Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to spoil.
I’d made him shoes. I thought he would hate them, but he loved his shoes. I’d given him all the extra clothes we had, and he spent a whole afternoon trying them all on.
He was adorable, and he was all mine to love.
But right now, he was mine to teach—and he wanted to learn about everything.
I taught him how to empty the compost in the bathroom, how to wash our clothes in the river, how to distill water for drinking.
I’d shown him the letter Dad had written me, and when I told him how he’d died, he’d flung his arms around my neck and stroked his hand down my hair. It was so sweet, that gesture.
We went through the storage room one day, and he found a box full of useless crap. Except the excitement on his face mademe thank my packrat of an ancestor; Bowen loved discovering every new thing in there, and when he found the kazoo, he ended up scaring himself when I told him to blow it. He threw it across the room with an angry snarl and I couldn’t stop laughing.
I taught him how to make oil from pressing all the apple seeds we spent three days collecting. It was an arduous process, but having him there—those big, beautiful eyes shining with delight—made the experience unforgettable in the best kind of way.
I’d shown him how to dry the apples so we could still eat them in between harvests.
But of all the things he’d learned, what he loved most was reading.
He’d picked up the alphabet very quickly, and now we were reading through books so he could learn more words.
He was smart. Really smart, and he absorbed every detail around him. He was always watching me or Luna or studying his environment; his curiosity was limitless.
If he didn’t understand something, he asked me about it. He never seemed to get embarrassed or feel like anything was off limits, which I liked. He was as clear as glass, but nowhere near as breakable.
His wound had healed to the point he didn’t need a bandage anymore. He couldn’t lift his right arm higher than his shoulder, and I didn’t know if that was going to be a permanent thing or if it would get better with time. I hoped it wasn’t permanent. His ankle, on the other hand, had healed up perfectly and he was able to walk normally again.
And best of all, he always wanted to be near me. Touching me. On me. He was extremely tactile, loved using all of his senses to experience everything but loved to touch most of all.
I loved it.
