My aged companion, Crisp, loved a good cemetery, or should I say any cemetery so long as it was old which in fact meant any place for the dead. On our holiday we came across many such places, to which Crisp would always say: “There are so many, people must have been dying to get into them.”
On this day we were standing in the resting place known as St Pagan’s Home for the Deceased and she was admiring the ornate headstones.
“People went to a lot of trouble didn’t they,” she said, “to remember their loved ones.”
I asked her if she wanted to be buried or cremated and she said it didn’t matter, what did matter was that someone remembered her.
I said I was sure her kids would.
Crisp thought for a moment and said: “It would be nice wouldn’t it, to think they remembered you.”