R.I.P.

Driving through cemeteries used to be one of my favorite things to do.  No, really.  They are so calm and peaceful and it's so interesting to read tombstones--interesting in a way that nothing else is.  They are beautiful too.  

I remember the cemetery in Chester, NH.  It's my favorite.  There are stones from the 1700's and they are covered with moss and there are huge trees.  I've always said I wanted to be buried there.  The cemetery in downtown Boston where Paul Revere is buried is cool, as is the one in Plymouth.  I loved the Jewish cemetery we visited one year in Dallas.  We took the kids there for memorial day.  All I remember about the cemeteries in Hong Kong was that they were all concrete.  We spent one of my first days, in the heat of August, weeding between all the cracks in the cement.  That was possibly the hottest day of my life. 

I  never used to wonder if the people under those granite markers in the cemeteries were cold, or damp, or afraid, or lonely.  Putting your child in a cemetery does weird things to a person.

Today, on a blustery, dreary day, we drove through cemeteries trying to decide on a color and shape for our son's tombstone.  Mikey was with us, so we kept it together pretty well.  We don't like Maroon and we do like flat square tops and smooth sides.  The black ones get so messed up with the hard water.  We think we want just the numbers, not August written out.  We talked about things that could go on the back.  "That's All Folks"  "Thanks, Come Again"  "No Vacancy" There were many of them.  I can't remember them all. 

We saw one epitaph online we liked.  "Forget I died, just remember I lived."  It's nice when you think about it hypothetically, but how in the world can people sum up a life in 25 words or less--especially a life as special and unique as Ian's.

Who knows what we'll put on it.  We can only stand to think about it in tiny spurts.