Sometimes the dead do not wait for us beneath the earth. They wait within the letters that still bear their names.

I remember almost nothing of the walk through the abandoned cemetery.

One tall granite stone.

Every other monument had yielded to weather, neglect, and time.

Swallowed by grass and silence.

Yet this one still stood.

As though it had refused the verdict of history.

I did not yet know whose grave it marked.

Only that it had survived.

Only later would I understand

that perhaps my great-grandfather,

had left me one final lesson.

I came thinking I was searching for the dead.

the dead were waiting for me.

My father grew up an orphan of a civilization.

He inherited memories without hands to hold........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)