Andy had a way of making the world feel lighter. He was the kind of person who filled a room with warmth just by stepping into it, who never let a moment pass without finding a reason to laugh. It wasn’t forced or exaggerated—it was just him. He made life easier, like a breath of fresh air in a world that too often feels heavy.

His family remembers him not just for his kindness, but for the way he showed it. Andy never waited to be asked—if someone needed help, he was already there. He had a quiet, steady way of taking care of people, of noticing what others might overlook. He loved his family in a way that was simple, unwavering, and true.

And the laughter—God, the laughter. If there was a way to make someone smile, Andy found it. He could turn an ordinary moment into something unforgettable, could turn a bad day into something worth remembering. His humor wasn’t just a part of him; it was a gift he gave freely, over and over again.

If his family had just one more moment, they wouldn’t waste it on grand speeches or long conversations. They would simply be with him—let the sound of his voice settle in, hold onto his laughter, memorize every small thing that made him Andy. They would tell him what has always been true.

"How much I love him."

Andy’s absence is felt in the spaces he should still be—in the jokes that go unfinished, in the quiet moments where his presence should be filling the room. But love like his doesn’t disappear. It stays, woven into the stories, the laughter, the memories that refuse to fade.

Andy, you made this world brighter. You are missed beyond words. You were so loved. And you always, always will be.