My son has a son, I am the son of my father, he the son of his. The son of my son I scour his face for signs, as men are wanting, subconsciously connecting with my primordial past. He has his mother on his face, but the back of his head and hair so many years familiar. The pride, the love, delight unfolding, the connection I feel to my future and past. Where in this loving and loved child do I begin and he ends, he begins and I end. Life never ends, just morphs into improvement, for the forward movement of all mankind.