I am in Austin this week for a brief work-away-from-home. Our AirBnB is cheap, partially because it is situated next to at least 4 or 5 cemeteries. Working in a nearby cafe, I can see gravestones right outside my window. I had managed to read one of these stones from my spot outside the fence: “World Traveler”.

This morning I finished Paul Kalathi’s “When Breath Becomes Air” and after the final page, I could not help but picture in my mind his final resting place, a small plot overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I imagined being there with the salty air filling my lungs and the cymbal crash of the waves on the ever-loosening stones below. And behind me, eternally silent, the remains of a life. I wonder what it says on that stone.

“World Traveler”. That’s it. That’s all left behind for a passing stranger, me. For a few moments, I burst into their eternity and that is all I walked away with. Where did they go? For how long? Who did they meet? That’s what the little voice in my head pondered as I paced away, beguiled.

I’ll never know, but I hope it meant so much more to the person who put it there. I hope it left them as much comfort as death can leave behind.