I catch a glimpse of my father every once in a while.
Walking down the street, I'll see a head of white, curly hair at the right height out of the corner of my eye. Or a profile like my dad's. Or a flash of a smile.
I turn immediately, I always turn. And of course it's someone else.
I know, I know in my mind he's dead. But emotional memory, muscle memory, they take a long time to fade.
Nick humors me. He knows I hope for the reality of ghosts.
The other day I was feeding Jordan, and he kept looking over my left shoulder and laughing.
I looked, and I looked, and there was nothing, just the room. No mirror or window to catch his reflection. No toy, no motion, no music.
And yet, he'd focus on me, then turn, look over my shoulder, and laugh. Over and over.
I'd turn, quickly, hoping to catch him, if briefly.
It must be my dad.
Because you know, when I was young, we used to play this game at the dinner table. We'd compete to see who could make a worse face, my dad and I. He was not one of those "your face will freeze like that" kinds of people.
And he would love Jordan, and Jordan would love him. Who better to make faces over my shoulder?
It must be my dad. I say this to Nick, who wants to think it's possible for me, but in truth, he does not.
I can still make ridiculous faces. I can even frighten myself in the mirror with terrible facial contortions. I'm not kidding. I'm a huge chicken; I can scare myself into a panic if I'm home alone at night.
And yet, I long for a ghost.