There is a large cemetery close to where I live. It is the oldest cemetery in the city, with graves marking the passing of people from the time when this metropolis was little more than a village. In the absence of any large parks in the vicinity, the cemetery is a favourite spot for locals wanting a quiet walk away from the streets and traffic.
There is no longer any space left in the cemetery grounds for burials. Families who want a memorial for someone who has died must settle for a small plaque on a dedicated wall. I assume the plaque covers a niche holding the cremated remains of the departed, and I wonder at the need for this custom of a permanent marker for the dead. That said, I do find it interesting to read the details on those headstones that provide more than just names and dates.
In my family we have had two significant deaths: my father, 35 years ago, and my father-in-law, ten years ago. Both were cremated, neither was interred. We took my father’s ashes up a local mountain and tossed them into the wind. It seemed an appropriate idea at the time as he had been a geologist and worked all his life in mountainous, remote locations. My sisters and I were young and didn’t appreciate the need for ceremony to solemnize the occasion. We just hacked the plastic urn open and started in. It was an unsatisfying and undignified way to deal with his remains.
My father-in-law’s ashes are still with us, in an urn in our basement. Rarely thought about but intact. Like our memories of him.