Remembering

Last weekend was the consecration of my grandmother's headstone. Basically it involved heading out to the cemetary with my family to view the completed grave for the first time, while the rabbi said some prayers over it and then reread a large portion of her eulogy and said a few words. People there: me and my immediate family, our second cousins, and two old people who I think are related to me somehow but really I have no idea (My immediate family is rather introverted; we don't visit the others much, so I only have the vaguest idea of who my relatives are and how I'm related to them). After the consecration, we were at the cemetary already so it made sense to visit the other graves of relatives who had been buried there. These people consisted of my grandfather, my great-aunt, and Uncle Max, who was my grnadmother's brother and the second cousin's grandfather. My mother knew exactly where the graves of my grandfather and great-aunt were. Neither she or any of the other relatives present knew where Max's grave was. Not even his own children and grandchildren.

I was left somewhat confused by all of this. On the one hand, it seems deeply offensive to have no idea where your own grandfather's grave is. But on the other, maybe my cousins have the right idea, that the best way to honour someone is to live your life well and happily rather than spend hours standing around over depressing gravestones. I certainly don't get any joy thinking about people however many years from now standing over a grave to remember me. And all too often visiting the cemetary can turn into something you do because it's expected; an outward symbol. You shouldn't need a grave to mourn/remember someone properly.

I don't know. I'm torn between this idea that they should have more respect for the past and the idea that remembering someone is a hell of a lot more than a couple of visits a year, that the visits themselves have no meaning beyond what you bring with it.