Dad - 1 year.
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.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Holding Too Tightly
They hold tightly to what isn't even there and wait for a future that cannot come. Grasping air because they see nothing else they run from what threatens to be. To soon must it become real. The air will slip away. Make-believe life will be swallowed by a very harsh and real situation, one permitting no more dreams. Then they will become old, though they are hardly more than children. They will be bitter. They will be angry. They will have been cheated. What for others might have been, for them never had a chance.
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anniversary
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