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When
my
grandfather
died,
I
was
ten,
and
nobody
had
ever
died
on
me
before.
All
of
a
sudden,
it
hit
me:
I'm
never
going
to
see
him
again,
but
I
was
wrong.
Every
once
in
a
while
I'll
get
into
a
car
that
has
that
same
stale,
smoky
scent,
and
it
all
comes
back
to
me.
I
look
forward
to
those
flashbacks
of
him,
and
I
wonder
what,
if
anything,
will
remind
people
of
me.
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