On days like this he often sings to you, carrying you up on his broad shoulders and bouncing along to the rhythm of the song. You tip your head back, gulp up big lungfulls of the cool, sweet air, as if it were water. His big voice buoys up your heart, makes you smile and grab upward at the sky...The sunlight stutters against your upturned face, golden tiers of leaves chopping up the rays as you walk...

Afternoons he takes you fishing--patience would be enough, but he actually seems to enjoy showing you the ropes, makes everything seem like fun rather than a chore or necessity. Every one of his laughs, his hands guiding yours through the graceful arc of a cast, his ruffling of your hair, gives you a deep and abiding sense of peace. A part of you fears tomorrow, prepares to mourn the loss of this, these days. At such
a young age you understand the bittersweet, the memories that bring both smiles and tears...

He kisses the top of your head, then gives you a big hug from behind, his face squashed up against yours.

"You're gettin' pretty good at this, feller! You sure you ain't my boy?"

"'Course I'm your boy!" you say, turn and grin.