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.
He speaks well but it is as yet only from the fullness of his head. If ever he can add the fullness of his heart it will ring that much truer. But it takes time and any number of experiences, plus a measure of pain, to fill a heart.
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