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.
Friday, February 22, 2013
The Dream
The dream was so real, so reassuring and safe. We were together and able to hope. It was in a time that never really was, but was so like ones we had shared. It was like days when treatment seemed to work and we might wonder why we had been worried and so afraid. But then it was over. I felt even more alone for the hope was well over. It could not come back. I could, I suppose, be as grateful for dreams as I am for memories. But it hurts to know they will not come true, as it does to realize memories are only that. They are good for having been, but sad for being over.
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