They say time heals, but grief doesn’t keep a calendar. Thirteen years after my father’s death, I still found him in small, ordinary things—the whistle of the kettle, the slant of afternoon light, the reflex to call someone who’d never answer again. He wasn’t just my father; he was everything after my mother left the day I was born. I hadn’t entered his house since the funeral, too afraid of the silence that had learned how to bite. I told myself I’d go back someday for documents, though the truth was simpler—I wasn’t ready.
That day finally arrived. Standing on the porch, the copper key warmed in my palm as I whispered, “You can do this, Lindsay,” knowing it was a lie. The oak tree he’d planted when I was born swayed beside me, its roots deep, its branches defiant. Inside, memories pressed against every wall. The attic was thick with dust and ghosts: boxes of sweaters, a flannel that still carried his scent, and a photo from my graduation where his grin outshone the day. Then I saw it—his old leather bag, the one from our weekends together. Inside was a note in his handwriting: We will play together after you pass the entrance exams, pumpkin! I’m really proud of you!
Tears blurred the attic into motion. Beneath the letter was our old game console, the one we’d raced on for hours. He’d always win, teasing, “One day you’ll beat me, but not today.” When I plugged it in, his “ghost car” appeared—his record, saved forever on the track, looping like a heartbeat. “You left me a race,” I whispered. I played, lap after lap, chasing his phantom, hearing his laughter in every perfect turn. When I finally had the chance to win, I paused. “If I let you win, do you stay?” I asked the screen. Then I eased off the gas. His car crossed first. It hurt like grace.
Now, on the days when the hospital feels heavier than my bones, I bring the console home and race again. I tell him about my patients, about life, about the mess in my sink. I lose on purpose and feel his presence in the space between each lap. Love, I’ve learned, doesn’t vanish—it just changes shape. Sometimes it’s a ghost car that never stops running, pulling you forward one more time. And as long as he’s still on that track, I’ll keep racing him—maybe I’ll catch him one day. But not today. Today, I just want to race with my dad.
