Sunset at St Non’s Chapel, Pembrokeshire. St Non was the mother of St David, the patron saint of Wales

The significance of remembering those who have died

This has been a summer of remembering. As a nation, we have been remembering the young men who lost their lives in the First World War. We have come together to do this. But it is what we, as individuals, do all the time for those we love who have died. We remember them, create memorials for them, simply talk about them. And in this way, they live on. I have often wondered over the past four and a half years since my daughter Megan died about the extent to which our remembering is an essential part of eternal life. It could be that the spirit does continue to live after the body has died. Megan certainly believed so and I have reason to agree with her. But it is significant that the simple act of remembering is so deeply ingrained within us. When I tell one of my grandchildren a little story about my own grandparents, I am conscious that I have made a connection spanning more than a hundred years. When Megan’s poetry was published in Wordsmith: The Gift of a Soul, for me it was more than a beautiful book, it was the creation of a lasting memory of her.

Of cromlechs, memorials and memories

Ffyst Samson burial chamber near Tremarchog (St Nicholas), Pembrokeshire

Man has been remembering since time began. It is brought home to me most powerfully when I see the cromlechs littering the Pembrokeshire coast, the prehistoric stone funeral chambers erected to honour an unknown person long long ago. There are some that are well known, maintained and signed for the benefit of tourists. But many are just there, standing in fields on cliff tops with sheep and cows grazing around them. They have been there for thousands of years. What an enormous task it would have been to create these memorials. Today, when I stand beside a cromlech, I remember the unknown person whose life it commemorates and also those who worked to build this memorial.

The need to remember is so strong that young children give voice to it. The grand-daughter of a friend of mine wrote this poem last year a few days after her grandfather died. She was ten years old. You will live, she says, because we will remember.

You’d Gone
by Olivia Lempert, aged 10

One day, a normal day,
Your laugh could still be heard.
You could write, you could draw,
You could smile more and more,
There was your glory in life,
A golden life,
Many a month,
Then …
You were silent.
You’d found the place,
You’d found the sound,
You’d found the end of living.
Your family heard,
They couldn’t believe
You’d gone.

You will sleep, but not dream,
You will lie, but not wake.
But still you will live,
Because we
Will remember.
Our memories are beautiful,
Since you stepped in.
We’ll sit beside you, and remember
Your smell,
A sweet, soft aroma,
Your voice,
A low, gentle growl,
Your smile,
A beaming, successful grin.
And then remember
You’d gone.

© Olivia Lempert