Choices, choices, all the time.
Once, two roads lay before me,
and each one, a father and a son,
each offering a path home.
The father said the road on the left would be the best way back.
The son, Miles III, knew better than his pater,
and swore the right road was a better route.

I looked at their paths and their faces,
each so sure,
so full of frustration at the other’s intransigence.
Only one way home could be the best,
but we might never know what it would be.

Finally, I offered a compromise,
and suggested the middle path,
going the third way down the center road
nd that has made all the difference.