(We go back a long way. This was a conversation in a church yard.)
“If you’re asking me if I think knowing where loved ones are buried is important, then I’m not sure. It must depend on who you are, on how your life is turning out.
“[…] I know my parents are dead. My mother didn’t know anything about how my father died. My sister tried, but she’s never found anything out either.
“I just met silence.
“No-one we knew was ever told anything. ‘He died in the fighting’ was all they said. ‘He died in the fighting.’ No-one said who killed him.
“And then? Well […] And then my mother fell ill before she died but I couldn’t visit her. I couldn’t visit home, couldn’t help her or comfort her or anything. I could only love her from afar, from here, and hope she knew I loved her.
“My sister was the same as me, unable to go back, and I think it haunts her. I can see it in her eyes. But I don’t think either of us could have done anything.
“Anyway, knowing where people are buried … you asked about graves. I can’t say what it’s like for everyone else. For me, I don’t think it’s important to have a grave. A grave doesn’t change anything, however someone dies.
I’m here, now, just for the peace. A little time to remember. But I remember my father and my mother without stones to mark them.”