We taught you big words
when you were little - acoutrement and ubiquitous.
I used to kiss you just above
your tiny nose whenever I buckled you in,
and you'd talk - from the back seat
to the front seat, from our house
all the way to wherever we were going, you'd talk.
At night you'd snuggle next to me,
and I'd tell you stories till
one of us fell asleep.
And although I didn't see
the teen in the boy,
I still see the little
boy in the teen, and
I still sometimes almost
reach for your hand as we walk.

When thunder split the night sky,
and rain pounded the earth, dreams
pushed Avery to my bed: "Dad,
I can't sleep, can I sleep with you?"
Only barely awake I pulled the covers
aside to make room, then heard his
breathing next to me,
soft beneath the rain,
counterpoint to thunder,
only a small puff of wind,
but strong enough to push his ship
away from shore, heading toward the horizon.

"Are you cold" I asked
Myles, skinny, four, standing
by the water.

"Yes. But I don't care," he said,
shivering slightly, blue-lipped and
smiling.

Then he splashed back in.