What’s in a name, and how do you want yours to be remembered? I remember a hot June day in 2000, searching for my great, great, great grandfather’s grave. I started in Wiltshire with county records of births, baptisms, and deaths, and I ended up scouring every cemetery in Trowbridge. And late in the afternoon, there it was: in a tiny Baptist Parish cemetery, I found it: his headstone, weather-worn and barely perceptible: Samuel Lindsey. All I had known about him was that he was a Scottish Sailor, and he died in Trowbridge.

After a grueling search I stopped in a small pub near the train station to celebrate my discovery with a pint of cider: “Here’s to you, Sam…RIP.” And I dedicate this haiku to you, in memory of your short time on earth.

Light floods wooded glen,

settles on bereft tombstone.

Scattered, nameless bones.