How many years separate us from the feebleness of our grandfathers—how many days? How many moments of youthful glory are left in our bones—how many leaps in our legs? We are our fragile fathers. We are their youth, their second leaping. We are their spirit, living beyond their short days. And our sons, the same, to us. In our timidity their light fades, both those before and after us. In our courage, their sun shines. Fathers, encourage your boys, for they are your courage, your pride of cubs aptly named. You have passed on your youth. Do not rob yourselves of the hopeful leap into forever, your own courage to die with pride in ailing bones—your sons, the light of life that may forever shine upon your grassy grave, your pride stalking its holy grounds in ritual and memory and honor. Do not deprive your sons of encouragement, for we are all our feeble fathers.