My travels to Chicago were supposed to be straightforward. I was going to drive straight up from my place outside of Nashville, no big deal. But then I found out that our grandbabies were having some rather important milestone moments on Monday of the race, and so I shifted my plans to instead leave from Texas. I booked a room at (kind of) the halfway point between Austin and Chicago for Tuesday night. I’d been looking for a reason to return to Bentonville anyway, for an updated look at where my childhood had taken a brief though most turbulent stop.

I made a similar trip in May of 2017, though more purposefully as part of something I call “memory replacement therapy.” The goal of “MRT” is returning to where something impactful occurred and seeing it through (supposedly) wiser eyes, feeling it with thicker skin, remembering but also experiencing the place in an intentionally better way. The point is to make a new memory, one that doesn’t eradicate the not-so-great one, but rather, loosens its grip.

In 2017, I walked up and down Del White Drive, took in the aging residences and lush trees, and stopped in front of the two-story home where we lived in the late 1970s when it was brand new. That day in May nine years ago, I saw it for what it was. In my mind, it had been aesthetically grand, a place that should have been out of range for a family that could never seem to scrounge a pair of nickels to rub together. But 40 years later, I saw that it was a modest place. Standing off to the side feeling a bit intrusive, I looked at the clearly loved home, eyeing the windows and remembering each room behind them. The memories came, but with a distinct realization.

This was just a house.

So why then, when I couldn’t get the house to come up in my GPS last week, were my hands shaking? It was the first clue that something wasn’t right. When I was finally able to plot my path, I drove just a few minutes and found with alarm that all of the houses on the opposite side of the street were gone, a park-like setting of big trees and well-tended grass in their place. Our side of the street at first glance appeared in tact, but as I drove down to where the house should have been, I found a quarter-acre of grass and weeds, a blown-over for sale sign beside the aged remnants of a driveway where my dad’s blue bucket truck had once parked.

I checked my memory and looked at the homes on either side of the lot. I was definitely in front of 2202, a number now without a home. I was startled by my own voice, the utterance of “oh shit” involuntary and strained, strange. I took a picture and sent it to siblings. Two of the three were pleased by this image. “Good riddance” was the general sentiment. I, myself, have referred to it as the House of Horrors. But to see it gone was jarring, unsettling, uncomfortable. It was just…. gone?

I steadied myself and drove to the square, an old and easily recalled sensation of being untethered wrapping around me. I saw immediately that the Civil War statue was gone. What else had been wiped away? I parked and walked to where we used to get donuts with dad on mornings when mom was particularly crazy, and I remembered what I had learned in 2017 — the donut shop was long gone. I stood in front of the glass door and picture window and looked into what was now an art studio. Hanging there was a painting of bright red cardinals. Some say cardinals are those who’ve passed coming to say hello. The back of my eyes started to sting, and I looked down at the bricks, blinking into view a large feather. Since my dad died five years ago, I’ve seen feathers often, and I’ve taken them as signs. He was definitely with me then, and it was absolutely the warm hug I needed to remember that everything is okay. That I’m okay.

I had a margarita and some chips and guac on the square, because I’m pretty sure that’s what you’re supposed to do in such times. The next morning as I was getting ready to take a shower, I started my music on random and “The House That Built Me” began to play. Of course. Another message from dad? Maybe.

After I got ready, I drove over to the Triumph dealership I’d stumbled upon when I first got to town. I had seen a t-shirt through the window and was eager to get back when they opened and claim it. While I was there, I got to talking with a guy who told me about a tornado that had come through and leveled his house in 2024. He wasn’t there – he was in Los Angeles for the funeral of a friend. Goosebumps rose on my arms, the prickly sensation traveling up my neck to the top of my head. The entire time we’d lived on Del White Drive and until we moved back home to Southern California, I’d had nightmares of tornadoes circling over our home. That conversation, along with a little bit of research, revealed that a storm really did take out that house.

As I was walking out the door of the dealership, a co-worker called out to the gentleman I’d been talking to. “Hey Austin….,” he said.

Another round of goosebumps emerged at the naming of the place I now call home when I’m not in Nashville. I was sorting through all of this as I was making my way to the freeway and I took a wrong turn. Craning to read a street sign as I passed, I found that I was traveling down 13th Avenue. Dad’s baseball number, my number for everything now. It was the perfect send-off.

The next night, after the first day of the Chicago race, my head was fully back in the game. I was walking through the parking lot, going over all the cool stuff that had happened at the track. As I approached my car, I spotted a feather directly on my path. It was one more dad hug, a reminder that all was really okay.

See, the physical things, they come and go. Houses are built, lived in, and sometimes destroyed. Donut shops turn into art studios. Memories can be toyed with, replaced, recollected differently by those who lived them with us, molded however unintentionally to support a narrative. And families fall apart sometimes. Dads die, and I just hate that so much.

But here’s the thing: the energy of the truest, most pure love, it never goes away. It can’t be burned down or taken out by fierce winds or family collapse or even death. It isn’t a tangible thing, you can’t capture it and look at it and hold it in your hands, but you don’t need to. I think it’s inside of you, that it’s always with you, everywhere. I believe with all my heart that you’ll see evidence of it, you’ll feel it as strong as ever….  if only you allow yourself to look. xo