Love.

He sped down the street. The rap music pounding out of his car windows assaulted each house as he passed. The sound was all anyone could see.

He parked in front of my daughter’s house and got out. The neighborhood fell suddenly silent, except for the sound of his sneakers as he crossed the grass, heading for her front door.

He wore baggy jeans. Saggy jeans, the crotch hanging down to his knees. His black t-shirt was too big too. His shortly cropped brown hair was all but invisible under his baseball cap, which, of course, he wore backwards.
Peeking through the curtains, all my daughter’s father could see was trouble.

Uh, uh,” he told her, wagging his finger. “The neighbors will not accept this.”

This was months ago.
I wish I could say it was hundreds of conversations ago. But it isn’t. I’ve met him once. Her father has seen him several times, but has rarely spoken with him.
We barely know this baggy boy.
And yesterday, we bought him a Christmas present. We bought him a Christmas present because we know one thing about this boy.
One important thing.
We know that this boy loves our daughter.

He loves her for exactly who she. He tells her that, even if he doesn’t know why, exactly who she is, is exactly what makes him smile.
We bought this boy a Christmas present because all you need to do is look in my daughter’s eyes to see that this boy makes a difference. He makes all the difference in the world.

Some people might say that he and my daughter are too young to know what love is. But right now, for this boy and this girl, this is love.

Love.