I am convinced that my father is the gardener at the Billy Graham Library in Charlotte. A totally insane thought inside an age where when the final page is written it means you've gone up or down. But there are things my father did that became his signature on the plants he grew. To sit in the gardens at the library my eye catches glimpse of that unique touch of his. And every time I fall witness to the presence I can't help but think of the other travelers who are walking about the grounds to keep such a peaceful place so melodic with the spaces we put between gone and continuation.