Some people leave behind echoes that never really fade—laughter that still rings in your ears, a presence that still lingers in a room long after they’ve gone. Carl was one of those people.

He had that Joker smile—wide, unforgettable, the kind that could mean trouble, mischief, or just pure joy, depending on the moment. It was the kind of grin that told you something was coming, some joke, some story, some Carl thing that would leave everyone shaking their heads and laughing despite themselves. He had a way of bringing that kind of energy into the world—goofy, full of life, full of moments that people remember.

He was hard-headed, stubborn in a way that could be frustrating but also made him him. It was part of the charm, part of the reason people loved him the way they did. Carl didn’t just exist—he made an impression.

But there are things left unsaid, regrets that sit heavy in the silence where his voice should still be.

"I'm sorry I wasn’t with you. You died alone. I'm sorry. I love you very much."

Grief has a cruel way of making us rewrite time, of making us believe we could have changed the ending if only we had known. But love isn’t measured in the last moments. It’s in the everyday things, in the goodnight whispers, in the conversations spoken into the air, in the way his name is still said, still carried, still held close.

"I wish you would have called me that day."

If only. If only. If only.

But Carl knows. He knows he is missed. He knows his siblings still talk about him, that his name still carries weight, that his laughter still fills the spaces he left behind. Love like this doesn’t just disappear. It stays. It reaches beyond time, beyond regret, beyond the moments that should have been different.

"I talk to him, tell him goodnight, I love and miss him."

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond what we can see, he’s still smiling that Joker smile, still shaking his head at all of us, still hearing every single word.