Savor the pockets or they vanish

All the work is in service of small pockets of time with the people I love. That's the whole trade. And the pockets are quiet—they never announce themselves as the important part.

There's going to come a day my son is too old to want to hug his dad, and I will never know which hug before bed was the last one. You almost never know when a last time is a last time.

That isn't a reason to grip harder. It's a reason to be there on purpose—to leave the desk at 3:30 and get in the water while he still reaches for me. Savor them deliberately, or they just come and go.