I didn’t go to the funeral like I “should have” done.
Something in me couldn’t muster up the strength.
It was quite low on my wishlist to see a lifeless body–I kept telling myself that.
I couldn’t wrap my mind around the ultimatum of that tombstone, how it lacked personality unlike the person laying beneath it.
Maybe it didn’t do the character of that person justice, whether kindhearted or morally bankrupt.
At least, a memorial plaque would show a face, an emblem, a monument to the person’s legacy of life.
How meaningless everything becomes once those two dates get etched into the wooden-framed, acrylic and UV ray coated surface, but how much more monumental that person becomes with only an object to be remembered by…
Or images or clothes or bed linens or journals.
Some people even see to the fabrication of their own plaque before they are dead.
It’s the wedding band equivalent for the transition of death, I suppose–an oath of sorts, except it’s to oneself.
While I can’t wrap my mind around this nearly literal aspect of digging one’s own grave, I have to think about my own purpose and legacy, what I want to be remembered for, and I want to create that starting now.
It won’t be about me, though, but moreso what I did and what I wasn’t able to accomplish.
by Linda Ellis (Copyright 1996)
I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone
from the beginning…to the end.
He noted that first came the date of birth
and spoke the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time
that they spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved them
know what that little line is worth.
When you look at those dates and symbols etched into my memorial plaque, see the date on the right side of the dash as a bookmark to pick up where I left off.
And how do you want to be remembered? Start writing and modeling that today.