My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
How Not Why
James wanted to know why Grandpa died. I said it was because his heart was unable to work. It could not move the blood through his body, and though the doctors had tried to help he died. His body could not live anymore. As he sometimes does, James gave a tolerant look, the one that acknowledges, but does not blame me for, not hearing what was asked. I had not told him why. Instead I told him how, and it was not enough, even though it was all I had to offer.
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