I walk in cemeteries, not by choice but mostly because of their convenient walkability. I like to read and admire the klein-kunst of the sandstone epitaphs. The imagery is naive and moving. The inscriptions and quotes terse but in a manner of frugal humility that shames a twenty-first century observer. The many infant and children’s tombstones laconically state the exact age in years, months and days. As you read each successive number the tragedy is tapped into your perception akin to the clank of the stone hammer hitting the chisel…. 1 month, 17 days….1 year, 2 months, 4 days. etc. etc
The rectangular depression in front of older tombstones evokes my late mother’s point favoring cremation. Implicit in her preference for reduction of bodily mass by fire was her horror of decomposition, rot and insect metamorphosis.
From the first time a sunken grave site was pointed out to me I sensed the abyssmal dilemma of abrupt autodafe or slow entropic seepage ?….Both horrifying.
Tough choice! Unfortunately we, as all beings are stuck with the leftovers when life seizes. Lights out!…..No more gestures, sound or thoughts, but the remains remain where the spirit left us. The rest is silence but has form and mass and has to be dealt with.