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, June 10, 2015
Hope In Children
The only good and hopeful aspect of life is the children. I can in others find flaw, even when I do not look. I am even my own virus at times, bringing in and nurturing what in retrospect thrives to my detriment, but no matter what I may do or what else happens they remain themselves with all the goodness and kindness that is sacred.
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