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.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Childhood Passing
He spoke of the sadness of children's toys set aside, of innocence passing as they become the people they would now be. It is sad only to those of us who watch. For those children, leaving childhood is what is supposed to be. Maybe we find it sad because we, like the toys, are being left more in their past.
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