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.
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Monday, May 5, 2014
Better Just To Listen
About the time he seems ready to hope, there is no reason to. He tells me this a lot and I used to tell him he was wrong. I would say life was the gift and just by living he was ahead. He did not argue. I don't tell him that anymore, or anything else. Instead I listen, and sometimes I nod. He told me it would be all right if life ended. He would not give back the gift, but it would be O.K. not to have it.
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