Ripples Through Time by Lincoln Cole

no point.”
    “There’s  always  a point,” Edward says,
anger in his eyes. “I hate seeing you like this. I  hate  seeing
you quit.”
    “This isn’t quitting,” I say. “It’s being honest. I’m
eighty-one years old. I’ve only ever loved one woman, and she’s gone. There’s
nothing left.”
    The anger fades from his eyes. He leans back in his chair
and closes his eyes. “Eighty-five,” he says
    “Eh?”
    “You’re eighty-five years old.”
    We stare at each other for a long second, and I feel a smile
on my lips. And then suddenly I burst out laughing. He follows along, laughing
too, but probably just to be polite.
    I don’t know why it’s funny, but I can’t stop. It hurts, in
my chest, but it also feels good. Pain can be good.
    It takes me a clean thirty seconds to finally settle back
down, and when I do it ends in a coughing fit.
    “Eighty-five,” I say. “I never thought I’d make  sixty -five.”
    “Well you did.”
    “Doesn’t change anything.”
    “You’re right,” Edward says. “It doesn’t. You have a lot to
live for.”
    I shake my head.
    “Read more books.”
    “Most writers are terrible,” I say. “They just rehash the
same old story again and again.”
    “Watch more movies.”
    “Same problem,” I say. “Only worse. The last movie I watched
might as well have been from the sixties. Boy meets girl. They fall in love.
Boy beds girl. Girl pops out kid.”
    “They usually leave the last two out of the movie,” Edward
says, chuckling. “But I see what you mean.”
    “It’s a waste.”
    “Then find something.”
    “There’s nothing,” I say.
    “There’s always something,” replies Edward. “And if you
think there isn’t, you just aren’t looking hard enough.”
    I scowl at him, but he isn’t done yet:
    “How do you think Bethany would feel without you even
talking to her about it?”
    “I don’t care how she feels about it,” I reply. “It isn’t
her decision, it’s mine.”
    “Then you’re being a selfish-bastard,” Edward says, leaning
back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Pardon my saying so, but it’s true. She’s
your daughter.”
    “She’ll try to talk me out of it,” I say. “Just like you’re
doing. She always was hard headed. Even as a little kid.”
    “Like her father.”
    I snort. True enough, I suppose.
    “And what about Jason?” he asks. “How could you even think
about doing this to him?”
    That hurts worse, actually. I find myself staring at the
table, shame creeping in. He’s right. Beth grew up like me, but Jason took
after his mom. He’s more emotional, less able to tune pain and hurt out.
    I figured out with Jason that you can’t raise all kids the
same. When Beth faced a problem she would just butt her head against it until
it went away. If I yelled at her, she just worked harder and got pissed at me.
    Jason was never that way. If I yelled at him he’d just close
up. He would bottle things inside himself, tuck the pain away. Never talk about
it until it came spilling out. He was always more likely to hurt himself than
anyone else.
    I’m proud of him. The man he’s become is someone I’m proud
to know. Proud to be a part of his life. He had a rough go of it. Turned into a
fine man, but his journey there was harder than most.
    Not telling Bethany my plans doesn’t really bother me. She’d
just get pissed, probably curse my name for a while, but she’d use her anger to
get over it. I’m not sure she’d forgive me, but she’d come to terms.
    Not telling Jason, though, would be like stabbing a knife in
his stomach and twisting the blade.
    Come to think of it, that’s probably why I called Bethany
this morning instead of Jason. I can handle people being pissed at me. That’s
no problem at all. It’s the hurt I can’t stand.
    “Jason always was an emotional kid,” I say, leaning back
into my chair.
    “Do you remember that time,” Edward asks, the hint of a
smile growing on his lips, “when your