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For me, the strangest effect of my father’s death was neither angry loneliness nor unbearable sadness. It was closeness, for I found myself thinking about him much more often than I did before when he was alive.

The thought is bittersweet. On the one hand, I don’t think it speaks well of the relationship we had. On the other, it is a proof that I keep, through constant remembrance, his memory alive.

[This post dedicated to my childhood friend R.F.B. “Barfly” — triggered by the recent death of his father.]

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