All go to the same place. All came from the dust and all return to the dust. Who knows that the breath of man ascends upward and the breath of the beast descends downward to the earth? I have seen that nothing is better than that man should be happy in his activities, for that is his lot. For who will bring him to see what will occur after him?
Fort Logan National Cemetary
Situated in Denver, Colorado
There are some 73,000 plus headstones are here, arraigned row upon row in several sections. Meandering roads lead you from one section to the next, and there are several kiosks for memorial services. Some days all the kiosks are in use throughout the day.
My parents headstone is one of the 73,000 headstones. My fathers inscription is on the front side of the stone, my mother is inscribed on the back.
The last Memorial Day I visited the grave, grief had run its course, and I stood there, empty. A small group of aged Viet-Nam veterans wended itself through the cemetery, going unerringly to the resting spot of fallen comrades, and standing each one for a few minutes with heads bowed before moving on.
The futility of it all fell on me. The world is a graveyard of spent lives. We spout. We grow in fertile ground, or we barely thrive in the meanest of soil. We wither. We die. And in one generation we are forgotten.
It is good to stand in the place of the dead when we are young. However, it is a bitter goodness. I am a long way from Fort Logan National Cemetery now. Others will need to stand silently before that headstone now, silently bowing their head before moving on to the next one. And so the sun rises, and the sun sets in my little corner of the universe. Day follows day, and year follows year. And my bones too will slowly crumble as the æons slowly grind by, forgotten and unheralded.
Yet I have hope. Curious, no?