Ethel Lane stood silent and formless by the granite bearing her name.
That name was all that remained of her, a name and a vague silhouette, plus her husband.
Robert stood beside her sometimes, his grave a carved angel and a brass nameplate in contrast to her grey slab.
Sometimes old, wrinkled, and grey.
Sometimes with a full head of hair, a chest full of medals, and formal military dress just like the newspapers showed when he returned from France.
Sometimes he wasn't there at all.
The newer faces called it ``tripping'', the ones whose stones hadn't even grown moss.
Usually the newcomers tripped a lot, reliving their lives over again a piece at a time, but as the living forgot, so did the dead.
Ethel nobody remembered anymore, save the wife of Robert and the passing mentions of her early death.
But Robert still did. He'd blink out of existence when people talked about the war.
He'd return young, fresh, and strong.
At least, Ethel thought, when her mind wandered, her grave was not empty; there were poor souls up on the hill who didn't even have a name or date left.
She wondered what happened to them.
She hoped this was mere purgatory.
A waiting period in solemn silence before paradise.
Ethel's marker would need rubbings to be read soon.
In a few years, Ethel Lane thought, she would find out.