At 50, My Children Are Beautiful

At 50, my children are beautiful. They grow away from me like new shoots from a storm cleave tree. And i i am dying. It only sounds like a hackneyed melodrama because it is. I cry openly when my son slips into his bicycle and spins into the world we used to ride together. All these mornings he peddled the trail byke, chattering my little outboard motor, then his own. The days are far too long, the years quick as a whisper. My wife just smiles and shakes her head at the softness of a man who has never held a separate heart beat in his body. She indulges no illusions. There's no escaping