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.
She carries so much pain, reluctant to let it go, afraid the alternative is hurting those who caused her sorrow, but if she would choose not to offer them pain neither must she keep it. It is alright if no one hurts.
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