Lives Left Under the Trees

I stumbled upon a sight that stopped me in my tracks today. Tucked away under the sprawling branches of an ancient maple, half-buried in fallen leaves and vegetation, was a collection of forgotten headstones. They were broken, just… discarded. Each one a poignant whisper of a life once lived, now seemingly tossed aside like an old photo.

​Looking at them, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of sadness. Here was a marker for Eleanor Mae,? John James?" born in 1898, or 1903, perhaps a loving husband and devoted father. Or mother of 12, we may never know as from here the stones are unreadable. These weren't just stones; they were the final monuments to people who breathed, laughed, and loved. They were testaments to lives that mattered.

​Who was this stone for? What were their dreams? What stories did they tell? Did they overcome great odds for the family so cherished?

Each name, each date, each carved sentiment held the weight of an entire existence. A love that overcame challenges. A life that impacted others. A story that, in its time, was everything.

These headstones under the trees represent more than just forgotten relics. They are a stark reminder of our own mortality and the impermanence of memory. They speak to the fragile nature of our legacy. What happens when the last person who remembered their story is gone? When the love that overcame all, the life that mattered so much, fades from living memory and becomes just a name on a stone?

​It makes me wonder about the stories we're leaving behind. Not just the grand, historical ones, but the quiet, personal ones that are just as vital. The love, the triumphs, the small moments of joy and sorrow that define a human life. It’s a call to action, I think. A plea from the past to the present: to remember, to cherish, and to ensure that the stories of those who came before us are never truly lost.

​Let's not let their lives be left under the trees.