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.
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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