It probably seems weird to hang out in a cemetery as part of travel. It did to me once. I am not sure when or how that changed. Perhaps it was in England when I was tracking down ancestors in the Cotswolds. Or perhaps it was in Ireland as I marveled at the magnificence of a high cross. It could have been in Argentina as we wandered through the mausoleums in Recoleta. I know I was moved by the magnificent lanes and trees in the cemetery in Punta Arenas, Chile.

You learn a lot about a culture in its cemeteries. Values are carved in stone. Here in Japan, stone cut in clean lines mark the graves of generals, housewives and artists.

It is a damp and grey day, fitting for a visit to a cemetery. But even here the cherry blossoms are budding. It is a reminder that new life follows the winter and time marches on.

We wander along the avenues stopping at monuments to the shoguns and samurai. I am fascinated by headstones in which guitars and dinner plates have been embedded in the stone. Favorite things placed lovingly beside the people who used them. Here too are long prayer boards called Sotoba. They are purchased at Buddhist temples and personalized for the deceased. Occasionally there are food and drink offerings left behind.

Sandwiched between office buildings and a grove of old trees, there is even a grave for a dog. The famous Hachiko who is known for his loyalty to his master lies beside him in death. Hachiko went to the train station daily for years to wait for a man who would never return. As a symbolic memorial, a city captivated by his faithfulness buried him with honors.

As we leave the cemetery, I am reminded that life is short. I look out over thousands of graves. What did they leave behind?

Character, service, and family are the important things. Everything else is illusive. I am more aware and a little bit pensive after our visit with the dead. The rain drops hit the granite in a steady rhythm. I walk on. There is a chill in the air and I am ready to return to the land of the living.