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, January 30, 2016
A Moment
I was convincing myself that I am not really as sad as I so often seem. I was trying to recall and revivify moments without fear or sadness, and that did not even stand in their shadow. I recalled several and am sure there were others, but one stood apart as a complete moment. It had lasted only the briefest time and was so unspectacular that no one watching would even have noticed, but it is enough and remains so even after so many years.
Labels:
good enough,
memory,
past,
sadness
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