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.
We used to console those who would provide solace. We are now tolerating or enduring those who would care for us, waiting until they are satisfied in their gift. Then we can be free to mourn and move beyond our sadness.
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