I think many can relate when I say that I was quite ready to get out of my hometown by the time I graduated high school. Sure, Savannah, Georgia may be widely considered one of the country's most beautiful cities. Pretty much any list of the most historic cities in the country is going to include it. It's one of the South's most popular tourist destinations, welcoming 17 million visitors a year. But I lived there from birth, and by age 18, I had that all-too-relatable young adult urge of wanting to spread my wings and get as far away as possible. I daydreamed of Chicago, San Francisco, and a myriad of other exotic-sounding locales all over the country. I eventually settled for the more budget-friendly option of Athens, Georgia: four hours north, home to a suitable, family-approved college in the University of Georgia, and what felt like a world away from my parents and everything I had known before.

I spent more than a decade away, coming back for monthly weekend visits to see my divorced parents. My mom lived in a modest home on the suburban southside, my dad had a colorful historic house in the trendy downtown area that attracts all the tourists and national headlines. Over the years, my dad became something of a local celebrity. He loved live music, lived for it, and saw hundreds of concerts a year. It didn't matter to him if it was a global superstar (the Rolling Stones were his favorite) or an unknown teenage garage band. It was his passion and life's purpose. As a friendly, outgoing guy, he talked to just about anyone and everyone at all the venues he visited. From The Jinx to Moodright's, every time I called him, I was regaled by stories of his evening antics.

Each time I visited, we couldn't go anywhere downtown without running into someone he knew, and he'd always greet them with a smile. We'd stop by a show – from The Accomplices (one of his favorite local groups) to Barry Manilow. There was always music, there were always smiles and friends, and there was always an undying love for the city that radiated from him with every action.

Last September, I was unexpectedly drawn back to the city in an unfortunate way. I was awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call from a Savannah police officer. My dad was gone, the victim of an accident on his red electric bike that he adored. I spent the long hours until sunrise paralyzed with shock, then arranged for a friend to come watch my home while I traveled back to Savannah to do whatever needed to be done. I didn't know because it was the type of thing I normally would have asked my dad about and he wasn't there, just an endless list of "do this, arrange that, don't forget about this!"

That time period is so foggy in my memory now, and so many things are just hints of memories to me now. While I know I was sorting out all kinds of practical tasks like paying bills and dealing with the court, but I don't remember the details.

The things I remember are much more tangible and so intricately woven into the fabric of Savannah as a city. Starting each day with a coffee from Big Bon Bodega. Mornings spent working in the beautiful Bull Street Library after my dad's Wi-Fi got cut off for non-payment. Lunches picking at grilled cheese sandwiches at The Black Rabbit because it was one of his favorite restaurants. Hours walking through Forsyth Park, lost in thoughts I can no longer remember. Spending time in such a beautiful city was a striking contrast to my depression.

It's an odd and uncomfortable thing, losing someone who was seemingly beloved by a whole city. In the haze of tribute concerts, online articles, and even a painting by local artist Panhandle Slim, I had such a storm of emotions inside me. I just wanted to scream, "He wasn't your dad!" at everyone sobbing at his loss. Now, with the benefit of time, I see it was a beautiful thing that so many were so sad. He felt a love that few get to experience, and even now, when I visit Savannah, I'm overcome by how much I feel him there.

I visited the city so many times over the last year, usually to deal with the mundane tasks that come up during the haze of grief. In between things like filing for estate executorship and giving away his many, many band t-shirts, it occurred to me that maybe I didn't dislike the city so much after all. The incredible sense of community that I feel when I visit is practically unheard of in a city of 150,000. The restaurants are delicious. There's so much history. And you really, really can't beat the charm of the Spanish moss draping down overhead.

I am probably not ever going to live in Savannah again (I hate the heat!). But the Hostess City will always be a part of my dad, and so it will always be a part of me. I feel him when I'm standing along the Savannah River, walking down oak-lined 37th Street, or paying a visit to Graveface Records. Losing the people that we love is inevitable, but they live on – not just in our memories, but in the places they touched, the spots that shape who they were. I no longer have my dad, but I will always have Savannah.