Back in NY, every other morning, I would jog through a graveyard across the street where I lived (http://www.kensico.org). The service road would wind its way through different sections of this sprawling city of the dead and after a mile or so end up in the neighboring Jewish cemetery. If I had the time I would stop to wander amongst the simple tombstones, leave shallow footprints in the dewy grass between the foot markers. It always struck me how this was clearly not a place of vengeful ghosts, brain-sucking zombies, or other stories that reflected our society's unhealthy fear of death - nor was it some massive metropolis of outlandish mausoleums, sword wielding guardian angels, fenced-in family plots, towering obelisks or other markers of crass pride and/or postmortem class entitlement.
There was something else going on here. Without all the distracting funereal window-dressing these headstones spoke quiet stories of life and loss and love, memory and meaning. Somehow it was always a relief to spend some time there before turning around and engaging with the rest of the day..
I did always wonder about the stones left behind. This is the most reasonable and lucid explanation I've heard so far.
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