Written in Stone

I walk past names every morning. Names on stones. Beneath are dates and the occasional title. Umbrella maker. Captain. Editor. Clockmaker. Some graves are adorned with an angel. Others with a bird. There is a grave shaped like a wave. Beneath lie father and son, both swept away by the Tsunami of 2004. Another grave has a twin; two wooden crosses, two sisters, a fatal car accident. Two earth mounds, covered in flowers, pink teddies, necklaces, photos. I don?t go there very often, my heart asks me to take another path.

I have walked through this grave yard for years. I know many of them now; the singer who used to have her name in neon. Now her name is written in stone. The sculptor who adorned his wife?s grave with her modeled head. Now they are joined for eternity.

The man in the photo was a Supreme Court judge. I stood in front of him for a while, asked what it was like to be in charge of so many destinies. He didn?t say much. In fact, he was all quiet. As I was about to leave, the sun burst forth from behind a cloud and shone on his forehead. It mellowed his brusque eyebrows and shone faintly on his spectacles and upper lip.