Graves are the country’s most stubborn filing cabinets; every stone, every marker is a file on someone’s life, a record that refuses to go unread. A funeral is like the census day for a community, an official ceremony where we update the register and make the memory public. In our day‑to‑day, we keep a handful of bookmarks—photos, a note, a quiet breath—while the formal rites lock the memory into a permanent spot. Funny how a simple shovel and a eulogy can hold an entire life, and yet I still miss my own birthday.