#abywrites

I think the worst about losing a loved one, be it a family member, a friend, a partner, is that all those memories you made together only exist in your mind now. With other people, you can get together and remember adventures, sorrows, even fights, and laugh about it. You can be happy about your past. A shared memory is meaningful.

But when the other half of that memory dies, something breaks along with it. It’s up to you to remember the details, the moments, everything. That time was your time, and now you can’t forget anything, because if you forget, who’s gonna be there to help you remember?

I can’t ask my dad what he used to say every night he’d tucked me into bed, and now I can’t remember. That little ritual between us remains in my heart, in my feelings, in the smile I have whenever I think about the good things. But the details are gone. They’re blurry, messy, inconsistent, and he’s no longer here to help me find the words.

The jokes we used to share are in a book in my brain; jokes that I only tell as a way to keep him alive. It’s my way to do that, and no one else’s.

My father lives in the silly little dad jokes I tell once in a while. In the warmth of my bed whenever I need comfort. He lives in those grand memories. But I wish he’d still live in the details.