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.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Mirror Image
When I see John I sometimes see me. It is O.K. most times, but other times I wish he could avoid some of what I have understood, or the ways in which I have understood life to be on some days. I worry that he may have the same confining rules, and hope he can do things in less ponderous ways.
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