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.
If I let you go will you then be gone? Were that to happen would you be free -- would I be? I said once you were free to go, but that was when I could no longer hold you. Is it yet a time when I might mean it?
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