I believe in tombstones.
So few of us leave a lasting mark on this world that tombstones are the only way to announce that we were once here. And we customarily leave that task to others, and they often are crying.
If no one’s crying, you’ve royally screwed up.
Same goes for no tombstone.
Let’s look at my minuscule family’s tombstone history. Grandparents on both sides scored their stones. Mother’s side is in the podunk town of Sylvester, Georgia. Father’s folks are in the Atlanta suburb of Marietta.
There were tears on the maternal side. I know because I was there. On the paternal side, I don’t know because I wasn’t there. Let’s assume so, for the sake of kindness. My people are not given to tears — but anger comes easily to us.
Moving down a generation: Father died in 1991. He was cremated, and does not have a tombstone. But many cremated people get their stones. My child bride’s daddy was cremated, and he has a tombstone in Taretan, Mexico.
Cremation is not a tombstone deal-breaker. Lack of tears is.
Mother died in 2009, and she was cremated. She too has no tombstone. Mother and Father have vanished. Too few tears. Too much anger.
I will be cremated one day. I hope I score a tombstone. And tears.