Isaac and I have this ritual of poking each other in the belly with a finger. First time he did this, he laughed at my burgeoning middle aged spread. When I poked back, I hurt my finger on his rock hard teen abs. He laughed. I poked him silently again, then poked myself. I looked up at him as he laughed and poked my little chubby potbelly yet again saying, "Good hunter!" Then I poked his granite gut and said, "Baaaaaad hunter!"
Ever since that day, years ago, we reenact this ritual upon meeting.
This Christmas, I picked him up at the airport. He flew home on his first leave after finishing basic training and assignment to the 101st Airborne. After the hugs and backslaps, we went to the ritual. But this time after poking his gut and calling him by his name, Bad Hunter, I gripped his bicep. I remember when it was a pipestem, it wasn't even all that long ago I could wrap my short stubby fingers around his whole bicep. This time was different. What was there was significant, and I whispered, "Bad hunter maybe, but Good Warrior."