Sunday, November 6, 2011


On November 1 of this year, I observed the tenth anniversary of my father’s passing.

The evening before, I had begun work on a project that had as its earliest goal the easy creation of a Christmas gift that I could give to each of my brothers and each of my nieces and my nephew. With the thought of publishing a small book on a site like, I had set out to collect any postings in this blog in which I reflect on my parents and what I remember of them. A touching tribute, no?

What happened, however, is that I searched the blog and read – again and again – a record that was not always and everywhere a tribute.

I found questions.

I found what had been hard at times to say, what had been difficult to admit.

What right, I found myself eventually asking, did I have to present to the members of my family a book punctuated by those questions, those admissions, those difficulties?

Would I transgress some ethical boundary if I suggested that life growing up in that house had sometimes been hard?

Would I disturb in others memories best left forgotten or, more painful still, private and unnamed?

I have time to mull. I can give myself the leisure of some days and weeks to ask: better not to touch this topic? better to let it stay just mine? better to look across a Christmas table and smile and laugh and give a future the chance to unwind without its real past?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

je viens de lire votre texte.La famille peut être formidable ou terrifiante.Dans la même fratrie,les mêmes évènements ne sont pas vécus de la même façon.
Alors pourquoi parler...
Lionel Duroy écrit:"A dire les choses,on ne peut que faire du mal,mais à ne pas les dire,on meurt."
Il faut alors choisir et assumer.
Jo d'Avignon.