I don't know you and I never will. As time worked on you, brought you inevitably to death, it now works upon the memory of you; flaking your name from the stone pages of past time, and drawing those who spoke of you up the highest hill to lie by your side; trapping with them your name, sealed within their still lip's, as they are sealed within wood. The same fate awaits me; though I never believed it when I was younger, not as I do now; I am not immortal. The ground that covers me will sink down, burying what remains of me beneath six foot of earth and generations of new blood, and in time I will fade from the world completely.
Heat shimmers off the hillside in the distance, carrying the cooler moisture trapped in the damp earth that surrounds you into the atmosphere; ascending into the sky like a spirit, forming a heaven of clouds carried across the world on a high wind to an unknowable place, only to return again to help bring new life; dropping into the ocean, the evolutionary Eden of our world. The splintered sheets that hang from the front of your gravestone are the living space of a plethora of spiders; their tiny hairs finding purchase on the smooth sides of your domed sheet of rock; perhaps they cling to your name, so worn away I cannot see it; I only know that any part of what was once you lies here from the sinking ground, like the only scar your passing left was marked in dirt. The Earth remembers you, the stone recalls you, the animals know you, the rain and wind carry you; you are welcomed too both sea and soil. What's a memory or a name too you now?
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