She let her legs finally give out by a tree. Slumping to the ground, she lay down on her side and focused on the cool grass against her cheek.
Graveyards calmed her down. She didn’t know why. When she had finally been released from the hospital, she found herself wandering into one. Ever since then, she sought them out. She’d lie in the grass over the graves and stare at the clouds as they went by.
Sometimes it was the only way she could stop the memories. Sometimes it was the only way she could stop the panic. She would trace the names with her fingertips. She’d read the epitaphs. She’d consider what it would be like to be dead. Dead and forgotten. Sure, the old graveyards often had famous people in them, dotting the yard here and there with people anybody should recognize. But for most of the people in those old, neglected burying grounds, there was nothing left of them. Nothing more than a slab of slate with a name, some dates, and if they were wealthy, a phrase or a poem meant to warn the living of the horrors of dying.
“Stop here my friend, and cast an eye, as you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so must you be, remember death, and follow me.” She loved that poem. She had sat down in front of that grave and run her fingers over each chisel mark of each letter, as if she were writing it herself.
Memento Mori. Literally, it meant “Remember Death.” But she knew the meaning ran deeper than that. It meant to remind the living that death was coming for them. That it was behind every corner, waiting.
Some of the stones bore an hourglass with wings, reminding the living of “tempus fugit.” Time flies. Or a skull with wings, symbolizing the soul flying away from the body, served as a morbid reminder of what was moldering in the ground beneath the slate.
Memento Mori.
Remember Death.
Too bad she couldn’t remember anything else.