Your tombstone stands among the rest, neglected and alone. The name and date are chiseled out on polished, marbled stone.

It reaches out to all who care, it is too late to mourn. You did not know that I exist, you died, and I was born. Yet each of us are cells of you, in flesh, in blood, in bone. Our blood contracts and beat a pulse, entirely not our own.

Dear Ancestor, the place you filled, one hundred years ago, spreads out among the ones you left, who would have loved you so.

I wonder if you lived and loved, I wonder if you knew, that someday I would find this spot, and come to visit you. (Author: Walter Butler Palmer)

Your tombstone stands among the rest, neglected and alone. The name and date are chiseled out on polished, marbled stone.

It reaches out to all who care, it is too late to mourn. You did not know that I exist, you died, and I was born. Yet each of us are cells of you, in flesh, in blood, in bone. Our blood contracts and beat a pulse, entirely not our own.

Dear Ancestor, the place you filled, one hundred years ago, spreads out among the ones you left, who would have loved you so.

I wonder if you lived and loved, I wonder if you knew, that someday I would find this spot, and come to visit you. (Author: Walter Butler Palmer)