I want to hold on that drawing for a moment, because of everything that came after, and because it is the thing I think about most.

My son did not draw that picture to win anything, or to perform his love for an audience.

He drew it in his room, alone, for one person, out of the uncomplicated, total adoration a small boy has for a father he believes hangs the moon.

It was the purest thing I have ever seen — a child’s whole heart, rendered in crayon, addressed to the one man in the world he most wanted to be.

And he folded it carefully and put it in his backpack, to give to his hero after the flight.