we finally found a way to reconcile tentatively, but meanfully. i want to roadway a passage about that. if i could find it in my glasses. it's come to that. the summer before my first year, i worked in washington, d.c. i turned 25. my father happened to be playing in a local jazz club. i was three, but i agreed. i arrived near the end just before the break. my father was playing the saxophone, jamming with the skills. i look my seat at a little table. he nodded when he saw me come in. when they finished the number, they took the microphone and said to the crowd it's my son's birthday. i want to play the next tune for him. it was warm applause and approving glance or two my way from other patrons. then the place got quiet and he play an old standard. i can't get started. there was no vocalist. by then, i had developed my own words. i've been around the world in a plane, i started revolutions in spain, the north pole i've charted, still i can't get started with you. he looked me straight in the eye. full of regret and longing. i gazed back, knowing