It was my brother’s birthday yesterday so it was off to the folks for dinner. My parents are currently packing up for a move to South Carolina so they’re going through years worth of stuff and deciding what goes and what stays.
My Dad found a stack of old photos from his childhood and some from mine. Seeing my grandparents when they were a LOT younger was strange. I’ve only ever seen pictures of them as I knew them.
Memory Lane is a long road and it was great having a laugh over some memories and seeing my Dad and his siblings making their own.
There were 2 photos in particular that struck a chord. They were both family photos taken after my dad was born and it looked like the whole family gathered for the picture. Sadly only a few faces are still remembered and the other names have fallen into a void where no-one remembers them.
The woman holding my dad was Granny Bridget. I’ve heard stories of her; she sounded like a woman with an opinion and more than a little bit difficult. My dad always says she could have been a rear-gunner on a bread van in Ireland. She was that kind of woman.
The woman next to her was my Nana and the man kneeling in front of her was my Granddad.
Looking at all the unknown faces in that picture, it brought back something I read a few years ago. To the woman who wrote this, I’m SO sorry I cannot remember your name to give you credit for it. It has stayed with me since I read it in passing and I thank you for it. It goes like this.
There’s a story that everyone dies three deaths. The first death is when your body leaves this world. The second is when the last person who remembers you, dies. The third is when your name is spoken for the last time.
I have a weird thing about walking around cemeteries. I love reading the epitaphs on the graves and often there are messages that hold a lot of meaning, even though you don’t know the person who lies beneath the stone.
Ever since I read that snippet, I say the names aloud when I pass each grave. Sometimes you come to a stone that is so worn by time that the name is lost to the ages, only living on a piece of paper somewhere recording this as their final resting place. For those names I say a prayer.
For the others, their names are said aloud and I often wonder if that moment will be their third death or if someone somewhere still speaks their name in memory.
These stones are in the cemetery below Roslyn Chapel in Midlothian. The wind was howling that day and I had the place to myself walking among the dead. I feel strangely peaceful when I leave.
