I strolled through the cemetery one summer morning. I hadn’t been home all night, and I had to kill time until my wife left for work.
I became acutely aware of the dead, just underfoot. They were down there in all that darkness, silently clamoring for bygone days when they were young and strong and beautiful. I stopped to read one of the markers:
Loyal Husband And Loving Father
Oct. 3, 1894 – Feb. 18, 1961
We’re born, and we die. In between, we try to live up to the epitaph that will be cut into our stone.