Sometimes, when I lie in bed at night, I feel this overwhelming love for my son. I want to protect him, I want to make sure that he grows up safe and healthy, I want to will him to somehow know how much I love him. And then I think of my father, dead now for over a year, and I remember the things he said to me on his deathbed: how proud he was of me, how much he loved me. At the time, I thought I understood: of course he loved me. But they were just words and words never carry the full weight of emotion that they should. It’s impossible. I wish he was still here, to tell him I understand now. The things he was trying to say when words just weren’t enough. I feel it, too. And I know that someday I’ll probably be saying the same things to my own son, hoping that he can feel the power behind them, and knowing that he probably won’t understand, either… not until it’s far too late.