12:18
It's 12:18, and I'm the luckiest guy I know. It's 12:18, and we stop, for just a moment, to smile at Mommy. It's 12:18 and just a few precious minutes ago you and I were strolling down the shore; you were a little afraid of the new beach with the fish schooling and the wind blowing, but I held your hand and you came along with me. I'll always hold your hand. Your plump little fingers are soft; your hand wraps around one of my fingers. It's 12:18. I'm the strongest boy you know, able to pluck you away at the slightest hint of danger. I can pick you up and throw you in the air at the merest warning of "liftoff!" I'll do that as long as I can sweetheart, and when I can't, I hope you're big enough not to notice the changing of the guard. It's 12:18. You and I and Mommy are big explorers, we went all the way across the bay in our little boat heading for the point where old Indian shell mounds whisper to us. Your Mommy showed me how to appreciate these things: the live oaks guarding this point, the little blue crabs running sideways along the shore, the osprey hunting for dinner. It's 12:18, later, we'll all sit down under the umbrella and eat our special lunches packed with great anticipation back at the house. We'll get sand on our "boots" and rinse it off in the cool shallows of the bay.

It's 12:18 and every time I blink my eyes it's a new reality.