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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Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Beyond the Door
You might really have been there. This time when it seemed you might be just beyond that door I wondered would I need to look and decided that, no, that like other times your presence seemed more real I would be satisfied in knowing it will be all right, but there is no need to know, and if there were no assurance would actually be there.
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