Dad takes his son to the book store and sips on coffee while the little boy grimmaces at the steaming cup in front of him. They reveal to each other answers from the book dad bought for his son, among them:

If you could find the personal diary of one person from history, with all the juicy details, whose would you want to find? (Son's brief answer: John F. Kennedy)
If God were to appear before you in any form, what form would you want Him to take? (A glowing light with outreached hands)
If you were reincarnated into a musical instrument, what instrument would best suit you? (Piano)
If you could, in retrospect, thank one teacher you had in school for what they taught you, who would it be, and what would you thank them for? (Mrs. Kellum of fourth grade, for condemning a walk through life without applying effort to talent)
If one part of your body was to become a religious relic, which part would you like it to be? (Big toe)
If you could gain the courage to do one thing, what would you do? (Walk up and talk to people I'm interested in)

Lots of stories pass through the question and answer session, until the dad, in response to one particular question, feels the urge for pizza. He takes his son to the local pizzeria, the one with the real Italian pizza, where you fold the large drooping triangle of mozzarella, dough, and gravy in half and take a bite out of the crispy crust before beginning to consume the actual pizza part. Dad doesn't fill the day with lengthy activites to consume the time he will spend with his little boy. Instead, he walks through everyday life with his son by his side, doing nothing glamourous to impress his son, doing the trivial things to talk with his son. Even the little boy can sense when that happens, and he skips along and grabs tightly to dad's leg, appreciating the motionless time they have together while the rest of the world keeps moving.

---Excerpt from a boy's trip home for Thanksgiving