Not just numbers

In school I am taking a class right now which is called Nature and sustainable development. This class is about Environmental Studies, Science, Biology, Ecology, Physics, Chemistry, Philosophy, Evolution, well, you name it. Among many other assignments we are supposed to do a survey comparing how long people in general live today, compared to people who lived during the 18th and 19th centuries. Our teachers have told us to search for old tombstones at cemeteries and collect our data there. Our study group were selected to gather information about 100 males who died before the year 1900. Last night I visited a cemetery and started writing down years. The year they were born, and the year they died. Checking the names on the tombstones just to make sure that they were male, then writing the digits down in my notebook. Like a scientist. Well, I suppose that was the plan anyway. 

I did not feel really comfortable doing this however. It is not that I have a problem with cemeteries, I really don't. Actually, I love cemeteries. I find them beautiful and peaceful. I like the idea of people resting forever side by side in the shade beneath huge trees. The reason I felt unconfortable is that I felt they deserved to be more than just numbers. Searching for dead male citizens who died before the year 1900 suddenly made me feel cold. They were actual living people once. People with lives, families, dreams, hopes and fears. It got me thinking. I felt so very humbled by it all, humbled by their prescence. In this survey we are doing all these people will remain only numbers. But I read their names on the tombstones. I read the Bible verses some of them had added on there. I found huge stones, engraved in gold. I saw really tiny ones, where it was now impossible to read the names and years. Some tombstones had little sculptures attached to them. I realized that the wooden crosses that probably once were there too, today no longer exist. They are gone forever. Some of the graves looked well taken care of though, with flowers and candles next to them. Some of the names on the stones seemed familiar, as they were probably relatives to families who still live in the Mariestad area.  

Last night I felt jus like I got to meet men who were dead. I felt I looked them in the eye. And that they looked back at me. To them I was a strange visitor from a strange time. What was my purpose there? Suddenly I didn’t even know myself. What was I really trying to investigate? What was it all about? I felt awkward and almost a little ashamed. Filling my notebook with the years got me thinking. I wanted to know so much more about them. I wanted to know what happened. I wanted to know why the father and the son were buried next to each other with no signs of the mother. I wanted to know who they were. Who they wanted to become. I wanted to know what life was like in Mariestad when they lived here. I wanted them to tell me about their dreams, hopes and fears. Were they really resting in peace? Those who died early, too soon... Why? Were there an accident? Were they sick? Those who lived long, what kept them going? Who did they love? ...And all the information I could take in were the numbers.

I started to think about Death... I started to think about all the graves that no one ever visits anymore. Those that are forgotten. No family left. No relatives. No one who still remembers. To me, that is what  Death is. As long as there is somebody who remembers you, you are still alive. When there is nobody left, all that is "you" are lines, dots and numbers engraved in stone.