The prayer beads in my glove compartment

Dear Delyara, My father drove this taxi for twenty-two years before the diabetes took his eyesight. I drive it now. His prayer beads are still looped around the gearshift. The string is worn smooth where his thumb used to move from bead to bead while waiting at red lights. I keep telling myself I’ll take them home because passengers sometimes pull at them or ask whether they’re for sale. Tonight, an old man got into the back seat and said the car smelled like someone he used to know. I almost asked what he meant, but I couldn’t. The truth is, the car still smells like my father too. Tobacco, mint gum, old leather, and the rose oil he used before Friday prayers. Some mornings, when I open the driver’s door, I expect to find him sitting there telling me I’m late. He is alive. That should make this easier. But he no longer recognizes the taxi. Last week I drove him around the block, and he asked whose car it was. I said, “Yours, Baba.” He laughed like I had told him a joke.