But more and more, each day, I notice something else, echoes of my dad—in his posture, his walk, the wink of his dimples when he smiles. And each time I catch sight of one of those things, it’s as if part of my dad survived and still lives on. It both rips my heart open and unburdens it, my understanding of his death different and far more manageable than when I was eight.
This is how I feel when I am with my Uncle Steve.
