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Journals & Notebooks

The words my father left are tied in string, jumbled and crackling. They still smell of smoke and are getting just as yellow. The pages’ corners are more brittle every year, but I am a childless only child and they only need to last part of one more lifetime. Dad’s writing was his own, his thoughts more poetry than mundane. I wish he had kept it in leather journals with silk bindings. I’d gently lay them open beside my heart on an altar of so many mixed memories…

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