My father, age 84, is ill and for the most part, I am not writing about it.
I don’t want to write about it, beyond forcing myself to record some basic facts in my journal for the future me who may want to reconstruct how everything went so terribly wrong.
For example, one morning while I was staying with my parents last month, my father woke up and said, “We were robbed last night.”
Aware this hadn’t happened, I said, “Oh really?”
And he replied with great certainty, “They were convicts.”
I jotted down the moment in my journal like you might a bad dream.
Please read the rest at the Brevity Nonfiction Blog:
