I’ve told this story before.

When Michael was about three or four, he used to play “Sir Michael the Knight.” Sometimes it would be on the sand in the yard of a beach house we rented one winter where we would build elaborate castles and he’d be Sir Michael and I was the dragon inevitably slain by the knight, culminating in my plunging death into the castle. Most often he occupied himself on rainy days when he would don his shield and sword and cardboard helmet and then barrel around the house. One time he ran through his grandmother’s home, cardboard sword before him, through the kitchen to the living room to the dining room and back into the kitchen, several times always calling “Sir Michael the Knight is going to slay the dragon!” or “You can’t get away from me dragon!” as he passed again, his voice fading in some Doppler effect as he disappeared into the kitchen, emerging around the corner seconds later. On one turn he was mid-sentence running into the dining room when his shoulder clipped the table and his feet flew out before him and his entire body slammed to the floor in perfect professional wrestling fashion. I jumped from the couch when I heard his head hit the ground, but he only lay there a second before he said, “Sir Michael the Knight hurts himself bad.” He got up and kept running.

He is still running. Michael turns thirty-two tomorrow; half my age. When he was born, I was thirty-two times his age, and now we’re down to twice his age. He’s aging, I’m not, is how I like to look at it.

What’s crazy is the obvious math here: The time it took for me to get to Michael’s birth is the time it took to get from his birth to now. It makes me examine everything I did in those first thirty-two years, and it was a lot. By the time he was born I had been around the block, to be sure. Time pushes us in multiple directions. A week from now seems a stretch compared to thirty-two years ago. Anticipation slows down time, but recollection instantly thrusts us back to one moment like it just happened. And when I look back at what happened, I often wonder how I’m still here. But all of those years are nothing at all compared to what we’ve done since 1993. It’s been one hell of a ride.

It isn’t unusual to find us at a local oyster bar splitting a dozen and drinking hard cider. Together we’ve ventured to various east coast spots like Long Island and the Outer Banks of North Carolina, trained across Europe and Asia on the Trans-Siberian Railway, and walked across Spain. We’ve seen more together than most fathers and sons get to experience in a lifetime. I am constantly aware of this and deeply grateful.

But none of those journeys compare to the pilgrimage we make to the river every evening when we’re both home to take pictures of the setting sun, and we wander around in silence to listen to the water and watch the wildlife. One of us might mention a colorful cloud formation or the approach of an osprey, but mostly we take pictures and point out the peacefulness. This has been a steady routine since he was four; the picture taking started just a few years later. In the summer the sand fleas can be unbearable but we tolerate them, swatting our legs and faces determined to remain at the river a bit longer. In winter we bundle up ready for whatever wind whips down the Rappahannock toward the bay.

Over these nearly three decades we must have taken thousands of pictures. I prefer to point my camera up at the ever-changing cloud formations picking up the last bit of light from the fading sun. I try not to allow anything “earthbound” into the frame, including trees or even the water. I like the fluidity of clouds, how beautiful they are ever so briefly before they dissipate. Michael aims at the surface, seeing hues and shapes that swirl and gather and disperse as fast as he can find them, capturing just the right combination of color and design before the tide takes over.

It is about perspective.

He’s been around the world on his own. Ireland, Spain, Cuba. And he holds together the art community here on the Bay. He’s done alright. When someone asks who he is like in the family, I don’t have to hesitate: My father. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

These days I prefer to look forward. There’s a lot to look forward to, and more often than not these days it is separate from each other, but always letting each other know how it’s going.  I am not sure where Michael’s headed next but wherever it is and for whatever reason, I am confident it is with faith, a sense of humor, and an instinctive ability to be kind to people. I am as excited as he is about what’s laying out there ahead of him in that land of hopes and dreams.

Happy Birthday, Sir Michael.