Remembering

When I run my fingers through the ridges that form the name 
On an old granite grave in an old dark cemetery
Where all is moss and loss
and depth and death
I remember and the name is transmuted to me through the heat of the sun on stone.
The limestone slabs protrude like teeth
Like teeth from a devouring mouth.
In death we are all equal
If only we are remembered.
And in the end
All we are are memories.
In the end we are just photos in someone else’s album.
What others make of us is who we become.
When we are remembered, we live.