I'm walking down the street, in the bitter bitter cold, and I'm talking to my mom on the phone, and she's probably having a hard time understanding me, because my voice is breaking as I'm speaking and I'm trying so hard to keep from crying and failing utterly and I don't know how coherent I'm being, anyway.
"I'm so pissed that I'm so... so pathetically desperate for stories of my father that I'm willing to ignore that part of my brain trying to warn me that something might not be right in this situation. And part of the pain and frustration comes from... it's just... I do deeply appreciate my friends who want to be there for me, when I'm missing him, but what I really want, what's really contributing to this sadness, is my craving for people who knew him. It's just- I only have so many memories of him, and I don't get to make any more. So sometimes... sometimes I just want to supplement with other people's memories."
(Never stop telling stories of people you once knew. In the end, that's all we have.)
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