A beautiful kind of pain.

In the beginning it hurt to picture his face or listen to his favourite music. It hurt to know that I’d never see or talk to him again. It hurt so much to remember him that I feard my heart would never work properly again. And it still clenches painfully now, years after he’s passsed. It’s still painful to remember him, and it will always be painful. But it’s a beautiful kind of pain.

I remember him as silent. Silent in the way where he never talked uselessly. He responded when talked to, and he started and held plenty of conversations, but he never wasted words. He didn’t talk just to hear himself speak, he talked when he had something to say.

I remember him as joyous and fun. He’d play music every chance he got, and sometimes he’d suddenly break out in a little dance just because he felt like it.

I remember him as loving, kind and caring. I remember him as a family man. I remember watching him be a loving father and husband. I remember him beging a fun uncle. A kind and caring son. A good brother.

I don’t remember every little thing he’s done or said, but I remember him. Remembering him still makes it a little harder to breathe, and my heart still aches whenever I replay my memories. It’s still painful to think about him, but a beautiful kind of pain.

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