Out of the blue, he writes, “Have you ever seen your own gravestone? A hazy mental image of my name over my eternal resting place pops into my head. He doesn’t wait for my reaction though, he’s in his own world, typing away, bouncing things off me.
“I did, I went to my grandfather’s village when I was 12. Walking around the meadow like most schoolboys do, probing for some kind of movie-like adventure. I stumbled on an abandon graveyard. It was almost sunset; the grass with their bright golden aurora formed a cozy blanket around most of those eternal beds. One by one, I read the names off their stones…my whole being froze when my eyes fell on that one stone. It was my name. My full name craved in stone. It was like…I dunno know how I felt…I knew it wasn’t me…but…it was…my name…my name…my name…on a stone…on a grave…in the middle of nowhere…”
I don’t type anything back. I am there taking that walk with him. I want to be there. The image emerging is clear, serene, pleasant…why am I smiling? I go and stand next to him. I like it here. I look at where he is looking. There is his name. But where is mine? Why can’t I see it? The letters don’t dance around and change into my name as they should. I want to see my name. Why can’t I?
He types back, “Anyway, sorry I brought up death. I don’t usually bring up …”
But I’m not reading…I’m upset…why can’t I picture my name on my stone? What is blocking it? I know I am not afraid of death, heck I have already written my will.