My son, John, has no guile. He would make a lousy spy. He leaves a trace of himself wherever he goes. It is quite unintentional, but there is a definite trail of breadcrumbs to follow when he is around. Sometimes it is a stray sock stuffed down behind the sofa cushions, a tee shirt that has seen better days left on the stairs to the third floor, or a capo made out of some rubber bands and a blunt ended pencil attached to his sister's guitar. You always know where he has been.
Mostly, though, you know that John is around by how you feel. There is a mischievous air, a sly smile and an open heart ready for you to crawl right into. Last Christmas as I was flying around the house in panicked preparation mode anticipating the arrival of family for dinner, I happened upon a bit of John. Tacked to just the right place was a sticky note. The note simply said, "Remember to breathe." That's John.