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 15, 2015
Road Raging at God
He passed me on Route 101, crying and raging, his face red and swollen by tears and the very terror of his anger. I thought as he pulled alongside he was yelling at me, but there was no object other than God. I know because I have done so myself, though I confine my shouting to two-lane roads, unwilling to share this ritual with other motorists.
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