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few things are certain.

When I lost Papaw, I went home to find him. It seemed like he had just left, his scent still resting on his favorite chair. I could hear him, five feet from me, telling me to drive carefully and he loved me. 


Losing family is hard; losing a sense of home is devastating. for months after his death I searched. Wandering for answers. Grasping at memories. Trying to hold onto him. In the seeking I never found satisfaction, so I chased his ghost. 


I went home. I looked at places worn and marked with use. North to South. His handwriting on a scrap of paper, a car like the one in the stories, the forest we explored. In these photographs, I'm trying to catch what's left of this silly, wise, gentle man's presence before it is completely lost to time. 


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