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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment