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, December 1, 2014
Entertaining Death
He decided this might be a reasonable time to die. He was without debts, had no outstanding disputes with anyone, and even had friends who could be sad without having to be overly distressed. It was a good thought and for a time it entertained him. It was hard to decide how he would be welcomed into whatever was next, but he had a fair sense of who would be there to receive him. This thought returned for awhile and then it stopped. Life was again as reasonable a pursuit.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment