Families grow and scatter, brother’s grandchildren rarely know each other, that is as it should be.
One hundred years from now no one will remember your name. Yet, for a moment as you look at the landscape just for that instance the silence is broken as the memories echo back of those from before.
Some believe we die twice, the first time is when we pass, the second is when our name is spoken for the last time. As you look into the landscape remember the names of those who swirl and float back to you, take a shallow breath and speak them quietly.
