I traced the Latin on the tomb as I translated and wondered whether the deceased had had a sense of humor. Or maybe the family ordered the inscription. Were they angry their loved one was taken from them? Or were they gloating that the old bastard was beaten? There were so many possibilities.
I was always wonder about graves. Who the person was, why that stone or that symbol. Graves are instant mysteries. Like people. My lips curved as I walked through the mist. In the half light, the fog devoured each stone within steps. And new ones appeared as if by magic.
Did she order that, or did her children? I shook my head. It’s amazing how who changes the meaning. Who were you? I asked silently. She didn’t answer. Then again, I hadn’t really asked her. Shaking my head, I continued on and let the mist swallow her.
I wasn’t there to talk to her anyway.