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, March 6, 2014
Places We Might Go
I was reading Yankee and thinking there is a place to go or something we might see. They are the places that do not interest the boys and things they would see only out of politeness. If I ask they do not say "no," but the most enthusiasm they can muster is "maybe," or one of those psychologist-sounds signifying they heard, but can offer no commitment beyond that. It is all right since they are not so often the "we" of these thoughts. It is instead "we" as I wish it might be -- as I assumed it would be all those years ago when we were together and what seemed only a beginning had the end already in sight.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment