What We Left Behind

The funeral reception ended two hours ago, but Sarah still couldn't make herself leave. She stood in the center of her father's study, surrounded by thirty years of accumulated things. The room smelled like old paper and the woody cologne he'd worn since before she was born.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket — the third notification from her iPhone in as many minutes. Work emails. The merger wasn't going to pause for grief, apparently. She slipped it onto silent mode and set it on his mahogany desk, beside a half-empty glass of water that had been sitting there since Thursday.

On the bookshelf, she found it: his ancient baseball glove, leather softened by decades of weekend games with her brother before the accident. The laces were frayed, the pocket deep from catching thousands of throws. She remembered how he'd smell like grass and sweat afterward, how he'd let her wear the oversized cap even though it slid down over her eyes. She spotted the hat now, hanging on the back of his door — faded blue with a curled brim, still bearing the sweat stain from the last summer he'd been well enough to wear it.

The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Sarah went to investigate, knowing what she'd find. On the middle shelf: a plastic container of spinach, turning slimy at the edges, dated from three weeks ago. He'd been on a health kick, convinced that leafy greens would keep him around longer for the grandchildren he'd never meet. The irony of it made her chest tight.

She threw the spinach away and stood at the sink, watching the water run. This was the messy part of death — not the grief or the speeches, but the expiration dates and voicemails and things that would never be finished. Her father had died thinking he had more time. They all did.

Sarah picked up her iPhone and typed out a resignation letter, then deleted it. Tomorrow, she'd go back to work. Tonight, she'd sit in his chair and wear his hat and maybe, finally, allow herself to miss him properly.