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When my children were little, we lived not too far from a cemetery and every so often, we would take a walk among the graves, trying to read the inscriptions on the tombstones, looking for dates, inventing lives for those people who no longer were.

Trying to touch time.

I don’t know how it works.  I am not sure how one connects to people whose name we could hardly read, whose life we never knew, whose bodies were long gone.

But we did.

We gave them families, jobs, hobbies, character traits.  We respectfully brought them into our everyday hours. We cheered them on.

And in a tangible way, we touched time.

Linking up with Pieces of Amy and Seedlings in Stone

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