On Sunday, my husband and I walked through the West Laurel Cemetery. I had gone ahead taking pictures of an angel triumphant perched on the top of a dome, but my husband had lagged behind.

He came up to me: “That family is full of sadness. The wife died at 40. The son died at 26. The poor bastard lived until he was 94. He never remarried.” 

“Where is this?”

“Over there beyond the knoll.”

I walked back. He followed. “No, not there. See the flag? See that slab?”

The grey granite stone was massive. The name “Hill” was centered. Usually these slabs of stone are carved with multiple names. Not this one. Names only filled the left hand column. That was all.

I looked at the top name. John Howard Hill the son had indeed died at 26  years of age. The flag was for him? Or his father? Which one was the veteran? I looked at the star on the flag: “Mexican War 1846-1847.” The son must have been a soldier and died in the Mexican War, a trivial affair historically.  At least he died after his mother Cynthia.

But the father lived on and on and on. Forty-one years by himself. He must have felt like Macbeth: “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day / Until the last syllable of recorded time.”

Who was this Craig Hill, born in 1883 and dead 10 months later? Was this an adopted child? Did John Howard hope that Craig Hill would carry on the family name? But he did not want to jinx the child by calling him John.

John Howard lived two more years after Craig Hill died as an infant. I can only wonder how he felt laying flowers on this stone for his family,  knowing no other names would be carved on its smooth surface.

My husband calls this a story told by subtraction.