Sitting beside my father in his final days, I realized all our differences paled in comparison to our shared love, a bond more potent than any disagreement or story from our past. This love promises to keep his stories and our connection alive, even after he is gone.
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For my father, an immigrant whose life was a mosaic of could-have-been, storytelling was a way to keep the essence of who he was intact. As dementia broke the pieces of his narrative, leaving gaps and silences where once there were stories and dreams, I found myself holding the remnants of his stories, tasked with the sacred duty of piecing them back together.
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