Thirty

He takes his time.  He's always on time.  He never wears a watch; he sets his internal clock.

He's not quick to make friends, but the friends he makes he keeps.  He paid attention to his mother and his sister and he's a very good boyfriend, too.

He reads fantasy and Plato and finds some of the other in each.

He explains things better than most anyone I've ever met.  Physics to his sister, Socrates' cave to me, the Iliad to a table filled with high school jocks.  They wanted the long version, and he gave it to them.

He brought toy soldiers... and, I do believe, some orcs.... to Latin as he described Caesar's strategy in Gaul.  His classmates and his teacher, females all, needed the visuals, and he was there to provide them.

He has strong hands and wrists, remnants of years spent twisting and twirling his lacrosse stick as he watched tv, or waited for another piece of his game to download, or talked to his mom about his day. Those hands give some of the best back rubs on the planet.

He's come home and cooked me dinner, not only because he does a better job on the dish in question, but because it was a nice thing to do for his mom. I know that because he told me so.

He is not afraid to hug in public; "Hey, I like my parents.  What's your problem?" would be his answer if anyone dared to ask.

He is never too angry to get something down from the top shelf in the kitchen.

He's my boy, and has been for thirty years.

He is loved.