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.
When we love we give a part of ourselves, a part that dies with the loss of those to whom we gave it, but in return we are left with the parts of themselves they shared. We keep who we were together even if the loss never ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment