I have not enough photos and not one video of yours. I have daily reminders in the eyes of your children, in small mannerisms that were passed along via the complexities of genetics. A boisterous laugh rings out and I can hear yours alongside it. A little boy runs along a river bank and I see an echo of your gait.

Even so, I’m afraid I’ll forget you. Sometimes I struggle remembering the depth of your voice, the texture of your hands. I wish I could recall some of the late night conversations, the stolen minutes between being parents, deployments, and military lifestyles. I worry that one day, the sands of time will have eroded all of what I had of yours.

I remember little boys tossed into the air, shrieks of laughter peppering the sky. I remember bedtime stories and snuggles on sick days. I remember the day you first held them in your arms.

I remember us, sipping beers, staying up way too late, enjoying each other’s company after a busy day. I remember date nights and impromptu work lunches. I remember the smell of grease and oil, a hint of the cigarettes you always tried to quit, when you walked in through the door.

I remember arguments sparked from the difficulty of a dual-military lifestyle. I remember your grateful grin when I finally returned from the ship. I remember tears and kisses pre and post deployments. I remember the angry messages sent through email, the distance taking its toll on us.

I remember cook outs with friends and walking the beach. I remember long road trips to see family and small, backyard firework shows.

I remember so much but it seems like so little.

If there’s anything I can ask of my aging self, please hold tightly to the memories. I hope I continue to see you in the everyday things.

It hurt so much to lose you, but I never want to forget, the ugly, the amazing, the beautiful, the sad. I want it all because it all was you.