I stared at the last picture in the bottom row. It was one of the last pictures of all three of us together. He’d have been forty-one today. Usually on his birthday, Mom and I would pick out a cake together and find the worst present, usually personalized with “World’s Best Dad.” He’d open and fawn over it like it was the best gift he’d ever received.

Leading up to today, Mom had worked back-to-back twelve-hour shifts. Even more than usual. She always got this way when winter weather got stuck in the seasonal change limbo and the day crept closer like the thawing frost.

She’d slip into an immediate sleep after her shower. If only we could all be so lucky. It was harder to sleep now. There was a constant buzz in the back of my head, like I’d left the oven on or the garage door open. Opening my closet, I’d fished out the only thing to calm the static in my brain. The familiar grooved feel of the worn handle of the case quieted the ringing, but didn’t end it completely.

Unable to second guess myself, I’d grabbed the guitar and brought it out here. The dark grain of the wood contrasted with the light smooth body. The mahogany sides had a few nicks and bumps from my dad’s time lugging this thing from gig to gig and studio to studio. Sometimes I’d gotten to tag along, always running my hands over the strings and smiling at the tiny twang before he’d sat me on his lap and taught me how to play.

I rested my forehead against the smooth side of the body. My fingers instinctively went to their positions on the strings. The metal bit into my flesh. Calluses hard-won over years of practice had softened in the almost thirty-six months since I’d picked up his guitar—my guitar now.

Filling my lungs with air, I let go of everything. My heartbeat, the crickets chirping and the slow strum of the strings my only focus. I fell into the rhythm of the music, letting the notes bring me back to a time before, when I’d never known what it was like to lose someone. After three years, I could finally bring myself to hold the guitar. Now I needed to play it.

Singing into the darkness, my voice carried on the gentle breeze. I was rusty, but the lyrics poured out of me like an unstoppable waterfall. Tag in the backyard. Sunday breakfasts with Marky Mouse—Mickey’s slightly disfigured cousin—pancakes. The Mickeys always came out a bit wonky, and you couldn’t tell if you were looking at a two-headed mouse sharing one ear or two incredibly disproportionate ears on a poor lopsided mouse head. The hours he sat with me, never getting angry or giving up, teaching me to play.

I love you, dad.

The words flowed through me. Through my slitted gaze, a figure moved. I could feel the heat of the gaze on me. Normally, this was when my vocal chords would clamp down, but I kept going, focusing on those words and the shadowy figure watching me. The last note rang out and I opened my eyes fully to see who had intruded on a moment no one else had seen in years.