Solemn. Demonstrating sincerity and gravity, without joy or humor, characterized by ceremony or formality, observed with sacred or religious ceremony, inspiring wonder or reverence. For me there is something hushed, moving slowly and talking lowly; and yes, wonder, I wonder what it will be like to be dead myself, and that’s a pretty solemn wonderment.

As far as sensations I imagine dead will equate to extinguished. But is there something more than my sensations? Did I leave any tracks, a scent? Woody Guthrie read a newspaper article about a January 29, 1948 plane crash that killed 28 farm workers who were being deported in a DC-3. Woody was incensed that the article didn’t even include the names of the dead workers. He wrote a poem that was finally set to music in 1961. The chorus ends with “You won’t have your names when you ride the big airplane, and all they will call you will be deportees.” No tracks, no scents.

As I contemplate events as in Rwanda and Sudan I imagine Woody, if alive today, singing, “All they will call you will be refugees.” No tracks, no scents.

In any mature cemetery there are mature trees; they add grace to the setting in a world far too barren of grace.