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.
Things that are over remain with us as things to be cherished or from which we can learn. They are not there to flay ourselves with. If they serve only to hurt they don't belong anymore and we can let them truly end.
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