A Flash Of Life

No place makes life seem so short like a cemetery. Birth, childhood, first steps, first words, school, first love, family, kids, work, feelings, thoughts, achievements, joys, tragedies – everything that makes up a person’s life becomes just a dash between the two dates. Most of the people will never have anything named after them, will not be a subject of a documentary or even have their own article on Wikipedia; no one will want to dress up like them, sell their costumes or posable figures. At the cemetery we promise not to forget, but to the next generation a person becomes just an image on strangely colored photos, a subject of nostalgic anecdotes and a name on a small gravestone. Their children will wonder about the origins of their foreign-sounding middle names, tracing them on a family tree compiled by an aging relative, trying to capture the memories before they are slowly dissolved in time. The only difference between us and our ancestors is that we leave more proof of our existence – photos, videos, blogs, facebook profiles – these things will probably float around somewhere long after the end date is stamped on our gravestones.

No place makes a person want to live like a cemetery…

  • That’s the Rosehill Jewish Cemetary on Troost, Jews usually don’t bring flowers, they leave rocks.

  • I travel for JOOLS

    Is this a local cemetery? And, by the way, the only thing (other than trees) that survives at cemeteries in this area are peony bushes.

  • The one thing I dislike about visiting the cemetery, Forest HIll, on Memorial Day is the absolute confirmation that immortality does not run in our family…