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.
They are content with survival and put so much away for that rainy day. It leaves so little for living, and when that rainy day comes -- if ever it does -- they may be too arthritic to go out in it, too old to remember what was being saved or why.
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