It was a lifeless Thursday afternoon in the church graveyard, present company notwithstanding. I heard only the trees in the breeze, and no human sounds. There was little to distinguish this from just another day. I finished making peace with my father, and gave his headstone a good dusting before walking back toward the church.

I made a loop behind the sanctuary, smiling as I passed the spot where Colleen and I spent our time years ago. Tobacco still clung to life on the acres behind the church property, and Dad’s childhood home was barely visible through a thicket of pine trees on the property next door. The fields and even church land had all once been the family’s.

Only 153 people still made a home here. I was not far removed from the concept myself, save for my home in Atlanta, my BMW parked on the grass out front, and my college diploma, the first to be earned in our family. My children will never see this place with the same eyes as me. You can always go home again, but it gets smaller each time.