Sometimes politics can be pretty dehumanizing. But we're lucky enough to have some people who can run for public office without losing their genuine selves, people who are remembered not only for what they do in public life but for who they are in private.

Paul Wellstone was one of those people. This week, 10 years after his death, people across the country are remembering his passion, his political courage and the way he worked with Republicans like former Congressman Jim Ramstad when there was a chance to get something done for folks who needed help.

But lots of Minnesotans have personal stories about Paul, stories about a man with a remarkable ability to touch other people's lives and lift them up.

Here's mine: The last time I saw Paul was a couple weeks before the crash, at a rally in St. Paul. I'd just come from visiting my mom in the nursing home in Minneapolis. And, of course, at the time, Paul was in the political fight of his life. But the first thing he said to me when I saw him was, "How's your mom?"

"Well, there are good days and bad days," I said. "And today was a bad day. I really couldn't even have a conversation with her."

Paul nodded, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "You know, touch means so much."

The next morning, I went back to the nursing home. And my mom was having another bad day. So I brought her in her wheelchair out to the garden. It was a beautiful Minnesota fall morning. And I just put my arm around her for an hour or so. I frankly don't know if it meant anything to Mom. But it meant a lot to me.

The rally in St. Paul, by the way, was great. There was a big, energetic crowd. And we had a lot of fun. I did my impression of an overly enthusiastic, ramped-up Paul ordering breakfast: "I want that toast! I love that toast!!! And those eggs! Those are the best eggs!!!"

He had this way of closing out his speeches with an incredible gesticulating crescendo - three minutes of passion and enthusiasm that just kept rising until you thought he was going to explode. And it would always make the crowd happy. Not just excited, but happy to see him having so much fun talking about the things that motivated him.

What I liked most was that if Paul had to deliver a 10-minute speech, the crescendo would always start seven minutes in. If it was a 20-minute speech, it would start 17 minutes in. If it was a four-minute speech, he'd start peaking a minute into the thing. It was always great to watch.

That was Paul: incredible compassion and relentless energy. And a lot of both came from Sheila.

She was an amazing partner and mother long before Paul ever contemplated running for the U.S. Senate. But once he was elected, she found she could also be an incredible force for good in her own right. She traveled around the state, listening to the stories of domestic-abuse survivors; and the Violence Against Women Act probably wouldn't exist without her.

But when you met Paul, you got the sense that nothing he did would have been possible without her. They were a true team. And if you'd ever been in a room with the two of them, it would have been impossible to miss just how much they loved each other, especially if they were holding hands (they usually were).

We didn't just lose a senator in that crash 10 years ago. We lost eight human beings: Paul; Sheila; their daughter Marcia; staffers Tom Lapic, Mary McEvoy and Will McLaughlin; and pilots Richard Conry and Michael Guess. Each left behind friends and family who are still grieving.

And when I think about Paul, I don't just miss his progressive voice or his bold leadership. I miss his compassion, his energy, his abundant and obvious love for his family. I miss the man.

Sen. Al Franken represents Minnesota in the U.S. Senate.

This op-ed was originally printed in the Fargo Forum, which you can read here.