I stand over bones, and under my feet all manner of men and women rest. It is as close to them as I can get, and yet – they are separated from me by more than hallowed ground, but by untraversable years.
The headstones are all marble, in neat rows. Two names are allocated for each stone, one in front and one behind. My grandfather’s name is on the front, along with his rank, the war he fought in, his birth and death dates. My grandmother’s name is on the back, her dates, and then the words, “His Wife.” Her children did not pick out any other words to put on the stone. I don’t know what that means, that he is forever identified by the two years he fought in a world war, and that my grandmother, for all eternity, will be known as “His Wife.”
It seems a paltry testament, and yet, how much can be carved into one side of a simple marble stone? The present is not large enough to enfold within itself all of the past. Even God has told us his name is “I Am.” Are they, then, lost to God? Or in the present in which they lived and loved and fought, already encompassed by an all-encompassing God?
Experimental City 