This evening I read Gavin his books, then turned out the lights and rocked him in the glider. He doesn't go to sleep in my arms like he used to, but I still love that time together at the end of his day. I tell him how much I love him and kiss his still-chubby face, then hold him close while he relaxes.
Sometimes I'll talk softly to him for a minute or so. I tell him that I love him and that he's a good little man. I tell him that I hope he'll be a good big man; that it won't be easy, and the road to get there is long, but that I promise to do everything I can to help. To be a good example and a good father.
That's what love is--that commitment. It's not the kiss, it's the undying yet effortless commitment and it's from the soul. You'd think that commitment--that love--began when Gavin was born. But if it had a beginning less than two years ago, I'd remember it. And I don't. I don't believe it has a beginning, and I know it has no end.
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