Some of the most poignant grave markers I see are the ones that contain only single first names. Cemetery visitors know the ones I am talking about. They’re not individual head or foot stones around a bigger family monument. They may have an association with a nearby family plot, but it’s not possible to identify which one anymore. They don’t “match” in style or decoration the monuments that surround them. They are alone, even as they sit among their fellow dead in the cemetery.
Gertrude’s zinc monument sits in Lake View Cemetery in Cleveland.
In another section not too far away, Laura’s monument sits perched on the edge of her section, just before the ground drops away.
The thing that makes these monuments call out to me is their very mystery. We don’t know anything about the person buried there. Were these two women mere infants or elderly great-grandmothers when they died? Were their lives cut off by accident, disease, violence, or did they simply succumb to old age? Are they buried under merely their names because no one cared enough to record more, or because the family was so bereaved that it was all they could manage?