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.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Friend on the Move
My friend goes from one place to the other. In each are people he cares for and things that he fears. Wherever he is he will be without who he left behind and surrounded by the aspects that frighten him so. No matter how quickly he goes from one to the other he will not outdistance the sad and scary parts. Nor can he gather around him all whom he loves.
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