O.K, Ernio Hernandez, I’ll play.

This is gorgeous, thanks for sharing.

It doesn’t sound like you’ve failed at all, quite the opposite. And I love the notion of giving them until 40 to find meaningful adulthood — I’ve held 30 as the hopeful mark, but I’m adjusting. What a relief.

And, because I can’t resist sharing poetry, your title brought this immediately to mind. You may know it. If not, you may relate to it.

“My Son, My Executioner”

by Donald Hall

My son, my executioner, 
 I take you in my arms, 
Quiet and small and just astir 
And whom my body warms.

Sweet death, small son, our instrument 
 Of immortality, 
Your cries and hunger document 
Our bodily decay.

We twenty-five and twenty-two 
 Who seemed to live forever 
Observe enduring life in you 
And start to die together.

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