My dad and I balanced on our skis at the top of a mountain in Colorado and watched. In front of us, a little critter all bundled  up in his snowsuit and helmet went whooshing by, in a classic “pizza” snow plow, heading confidently down the blue square. His big brother, taking a break from his newly tackled black diamonds, zoomed in front with near parallel skis.

“Not bad,” my dad said, “for a kid who should be dead.”

Sounds crass, I know, but he’s only putting words to the thought that runs through my mind each and every day. As I watch Austin ride his two-wheel bike all the way to school or execute a perfect front flip on the trampoline or master the Rocky Mountains.  “Not bad,” I can’t help but think ….

I prefer the less certain “could be dead” though. Because he should be doing exactly what he’s doing: biking, flipping, laughing, skiing, living.