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    Posted August 12, 2014 by
    Hermosa Beach, California
    This iReport is part of an assignment:
    In Memoriam

    Doubtfire Dad

    One November night of ’94, my dad took me to a movie that I thought to be “scary” by the looks of “---fire” in the title. Dad reassured me of nothing to fear, and, of course dad was right. Mrs. Doubtfire filled the theatre with hoots and hollers, and also my dad’s ear with my 7 year old questions of what’s and why’s every time he chuckled, which was a lot. With the credits, being the child I was, I was more relieved that the movie – judging by the tears of laughter on my dad’s face – was funny after all. Well, at least to grown-ups it was.

    A year and a half later, my dad was killed in a car accident.

    A couple years later. And a few more after that, I grew up. Somewhat. And happened to catch Mrs. Doubtfire on the television.

    I will never forget that night. I was hit with the welcomed memory of my dad laughing in the theatre.
    I cried. I cried a lot.
    And…I laughed. My ass off.
    And I cried some more. Because I missed my dad. Very, very much.

    For the first time in a long time, I got to share something with my dad. And somewhere between, “I’m melting like a snow cone in Phoenix” and “Carpe dentim,” I knew I would never look at Robin Williams the same.
    And I didn’t.
    Shoot. Sometimes, you two even looked the same.

    Ever since that night, I have turned to Mrs. Doubtfire to pay my dad a visit.
    And ever since that night, I have always seen a bit of my dad in Robin Williams.
    The unimaginable gift to feel the presence of your deceased parent, strikes me as one of my “I’m most grateful for”s.
    Robin Williams, I am beyond touched and enormously grateful.

    God bless, you. And your family. And especially, your daughter.

    I have you to thank for one of life’s greatest gifts.

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