Your mother buried me a long time ago and believed me when I say that I cried and still cry for this death every day.

She looked into my eyes, and I felt as if someone saw me for the first time—not the responsible child, the promising student, or the ideal grandson. I felt like finally someone saw me as a person, without any title or obligations, without all the weight of a powerful last name and even heavier responsibilities.

When the people we love are gone, the memories are all we can hold on to.

If love is the only thing we can take with us when we die, what's left for the people who stay?