We left our home of eight years. The table where we shared holiday meals with family. The front porch. The fire pit in the backyard.

He worked on a dump. His clothes always held the smell of dustheap. There was always grease under his fingernails. His hat, socks, work boots and shoes, every bit of his clothing held the odor.

This day begins a new month, September. As gentle sunlight creeps across the valley, cutting through the fog, I hear dogs barking in the distance and the last hoot of an owl.

As the devotional light of dawn touched my shoulder, I remembered them. In silence, amidst a flickering candle, they reminded me of their continued presence.