Walking through the cemetery, I weave my way through rows and rows of weathered headstones. Some stand at attention like sentinels. Some are sprawled on the ground, slumbering. Whether erect or reclined, each of these stones marks the final resting places of so many from so long ago.
I take note of the names inscribed on the stones—a few familiar, most unknown. Birth and death dates are chiseled under the names of the deceased.
On many of these markers, the dates are linked by a small line. Almost insignificant, this little en dash seems inconsequential.