Ambrose is sticky.
Sometimes it’s when his hands have been exploring his mouth. Or in his excitement when he knocks the bottle out of my hands and its contents dribble over his pillowy knees. Or maybe it’s the bounty of drool and spit-up that usher forth from his mouth (crying eyes were never correctly called “waterworks,” Ambrose’s mouth is a more apt elaboration on that term).
But for all of this, the stickiest bit of Ambrose is
his smile and his gaze
the turn of his head when he hears you
and the way his eyes crinkle when they find you.
Never was something so syrupy sweet.
When I see him, the sweet sticks to me, like honey on fingers long after they touched the honey jar.