The priest read a hundred names from the list that parishioners had inscribed. I had written just three---Fred, Robert, and Priscilla---though I could have added dozens more like Betty and Melvin who left our extended family this year. In the quiet of church on Sunday morning (cellphones are off or silent) we resurrected happy memories, contemplated our time together, and tried to divine the meaning of brief lives in the context of eternity.
Some day all of our names will be on that list, and eventually they will drop off as fewer and fewer of the living remember us.
So make it count.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,© 2014 Stephen Yuen
Bears all its sons away;
They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day. (Isaac Watts)
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