Breaking Cycles of Time

I was twenty-five. Fresh diploma on the wall. Told my father

I'd come by at the shop next fall. Help him with the books,

learn the business that he built, but I was climbing corporate ladders, chasing deals in

suits and silk. Now seventy-three. Shop's been sold and gone. I keep replaying

all those Sundays when I said I'd come along. My wife asked me at dinner,

"When's the last time that you smiled?" Our daughter's in the den,

rehearsing for her play. She asked me weeks ago if I could

help her learn her lines, but I've been answering emails, pushing meetings one