My father was killed in a car crash on Tuesday. I have only good memories of him. I'm struck by just how naturally much of this recent work on memory I have been writing applies to him. My most important memories of him are not the ones that glow warmly on the conscious stage (although I am certainly glad there are many of those) but the memories that have gone and come again, the ones that have become part of my blood, glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from me. Being a person he helped fashion and living a life he helped forge: these are the ways I both remember and honor him. Goodbye dad, and thank you.
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