In the past few years, I've explored the cemeteries at Mepkin Abbey. There's the cemetery of the former plantation owners.
And then, there's the African-American cemetery.
I've wondered who leaves the offerings at the cemetery. I'm assuming it's not family members.
I now see the benefit of being buried in a graveyard: that hope that later generations, ones who have no reason to know me, will stop and take a minute to think of me, and perhaps leave a token. In this way, perhaps I won't be totally forgotten.
Long after paper crumbles into dust and bones have broken down, a headstone remains.