My father kept a diary in which he would scribble occasionally. After his demise, I glanced through it, trying to make sense of the man whom I knew very little. I was naive, childish and secretly hoped that the world was wrong, that there was a secret person hidden deep inside who was far more than he seemed to be. I was a boy trying to find something to make him proud of his father.
His entries were written in old style cursive script complete with blotches from the blue fountain pen. I knew he could write well, but what I did not suspect was how different his writing was from his speech. In his diary, I found the intelligent, thoughtful and vulnerable man I had heard about. Someone who was deeply hurt, wary of love and always out of place. I never knew he was so lonely, that the desert had left him so hollow. I never knew how much it hurt him when my mother wouldn’t return his affection. I never knew he considered his family more of a liability than anything else.
Needless to say, I was upset. I always thought I meant a lot to him. That I was special to him in the way he was special to me.
My mother always used to say that I was the only reason why she did not simply leave.
After going through my father’s diary, I found out that it was that way for my father as well.
Knowing that you are the sole reason for two people who hate each other to tolerate each for the rest of their lives is both moving and sad.
I’m glad that he kept a diary.
because i think you’d not mind. it’s “knew very little” or “knew less than (something)”. can’t be “knew very less” because ‘less’ is by nature relative. sorry for the trussed-goose (get it? get it?) intrusion. the rest of the article does all that u want it to.
Of course I don’t mind. :)
Post updated.