"But here’s the weird thing. I stumbled onto that newsletter two days ago, right when the one person who’d be most interested in Clavin moved to Charlottesville— you.” That had been at the back of my mind since he’d shown me the newsletter. This was one of those coincidences that was so big, you wanted to believe there was a grand synchronicity to life."
"I had just one memory of my dad. We were in a movie theater and he was glued to the big screen up front. I looked up at him and saw that he was bathed in blue light. He laughed at some hijinks unfolding up on the screen, then looked down at me.
His eyes were the bluest eyes I’d ever seen, then and since. They were alive with joy, a true incarnation of happiness. I laughed with him, so I could be part of his happiness, and not because of anything going on in the film.
I don’t remember the film. I learned later than my dad had loved movies and had started taking me to see them when I was three. Once I knew that, I replayed that memory of him, the only one I had, over and over again. My dad laughing in a dark movie theater with me by his side, sharing in his joy. I treasured that memory as if it were a classic film itself."