I don’t remember his laugh. I remember it being a great laugh. I can picture how he looked when he laughed — throwing his head back, his mouth open in laughter — but I don’t remember the actual sound. I would recognize his voice if I heard it, but my brain struggles to conjure up the sound on its own. It pains me to come to terms with the fact that, while I’m not forgetting about him, I’m forgetting the things that made him him — the characteristics, the mannerisms that made him my dad.

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