I’ve always been drawn to cemeteries. Fascinated by the quiet. Curious about how the dead are remembered. Or forgotten.
On Thursday, Lindsay and I ended up walking through one. It was a lovely spring day. Perfect for a reflective walk.
My suggestion? A cemetery. She picked the one her grandfather was buried in.
The view from the top was rather stunning. There’s a mausoleum there overlooking the entire cemetery.
Most of the best spots were taken but smaller spaces, perfect for cremated remains were still available. It was a super peaceful place to be laid to rest.
I wonder if anyone visits this grave. Or thinks of this man. He died young.
To me that is always a tragedy. To not be given the chance to live.
I’ve always felt dying at any age over 50 is almost fair. You had a chance. Opportunities. You lived more than half a lifetime.
Sure you still might have things to do and lots of life left in you, but you got the major experience of life–College, relationships, children, working, traveling.
But someone who dies before 30 didn’t get a third of a life. And the younger the death the more repugnant it feels to me.
I guess I go to cemeteries to affirm that I am alive. To remember it is a temporary condition. One I should make the most of every second that I am given.