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  • When driving around the town in which I had been born and raised, I stopped for a long moment on the road in front of my old home. It was so familiar, and, yet, so strange; not the vehicles that should be there, not the lawn ornaments that we could use for landmarks when giving directions, and the big, old maple that had always been there, was gone. It was just a ghost of my old house ghost. Same structure; new soul.

    It waved to me, in recognition; then carried on.

    I was glad that it was still cared for. The houses that are the saddest to me are the ones without a ghost; the ones who have just died. Passed on and forgotten.
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