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.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Living Someone Else's Life
I can at times think my life has become confused with someone else's, that somewhere there is a person awaiting the tragedy he knows he has earned, but it never arrives. I wonder in those moments is he disappointed and how can I send him what he entitled to. There is, on the other hand, no wonder that I have been mistakenly handed someone else's joy. On those days I have no doubt who has earned it. Unfortunately, this righting of the system does not occur as regularly as it might. Nor does it stay in balance as long as it might. I then hope whoever is living my life is appreciative of it, and I understand why he is not all that anxious to recover what has arrived at my door.
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