The cemetery is crowded with monuments… a stone or marble or bronze reminder of a life once lived. He was born; he lived; he died. Perhaps a cross or rose adorns the monument. Who was he – on the inside? What statement did he make? What lives did he touch? All there is left of that life is the engraved nameplate. Memorial plaques dot the walls of hospitals, libraries, museums everywhere. Contributions in memory of … The gift provides equipment, funds, or perhaps an object of beauty. An extension of the love for one who was born and lived and died. What statement did he make, what lives did he touch? When my son died, engulfed by pain, I often wondered how I could survive. A world without his presence seemed meaningless and empty. “What is the purpose of all the pain?” I would ask myself. As the days went by, I came to know that the memories of him are still close. The warmth of his unique and special ways are as close as quiet reflection. How important it has come to be to survive, recover and reach out. In my remaining days, I am a monument, a memorial, to my son. I want it to be a positive one, to reach out and help others. Monuments, Memorials and Memories… How important they all are. Reaching out to say, “He was born; he lived; he died. His legacy is a special one.