I have a love and fondness of cemeteries.

Maman? Well, she can’t stand them.

She finds them terribly depressing. I find them terribly inspiring. Peaceful. As though I am able to call upon the presence of so many people and draw from them strength and perspective.

That might sound strange, especially considering these are dead people who I’ve never even met or known.

It’s an energy thing.

Cemeteries have been on my mind, with the quickly deteriorating state of my grandfather. It is hard to see him in such a state. This shutting down.

Yet.

This is what happens, to all of us. At some point. And I have vowed to make his final days here ones of love. Laughter, too.

I remember the first time I knew I would die. Which also happens to be when my love of cemeteries began.

I was four. In the car with my friend, Rachel Clark, and her mom. Running an errand.

It was a cold, gray, overcast afternoon. We were stopped at a light next to the Herndon Cemetery. I had seen this cemetery before, on numerous occasions.

But. This was the afternoon where I fully realized that one day, that would be me. My parents. My brothers. My friends. All the people I loved. We would all come to pass.

I wanted to cry. I had that burning feeling in my throat. My eyes felt warm from the tears that would not fall.

I didn’t want to cry out of a sadness, because I inherently knew death was not sad and not final. I wanted to cry out of a love for life.

I remember telling Rachel I wanted to have lots of fun. She and her mom thought I meant right then and there in the car. I couldn’t explain to them that what I meant was to have a fun life.

Sometimes, I think I knew more at four than I do now.

It’s still an age where you haven’t forgotten — the source of well being that abounds in all things and the life here, there and beyond that exists simultaneously.

I suppose that’s another reason I have such a love of cemeteries — it brings me back to a wiser part of myself that began at that young age.

Naturally, our visit to Paris wasn’t complete without a stop at Pere La Chaise.

This is undoubtedly, the most amazing cemetery I’ve ever been to. Miles and miles and winding paths upon mazes of headstones, crypts and mausoleums.

Not to mention, many famous people are buried there. From Oscar Wilde to Jimi Hendrix.

We spent a wonderful hour traipsing around, discovering and getting lost. Which totally wouldn’t be a good visit to Pere La Chaise without such a thing happening.

You can imagine that, Maman, in her rule consciousness approach to all things in life, was getting a little stressed having to reign me in. I think she was afraid I was literally going to take down a headstone. Or five.

I promise, I really was careful. It was just too fun not to explore and climb around those mausoleums and stones and think of all those incredible people and the incredible lives they had.

So I had to include that professional shot. Since my similar photo didn’t come out. And come on, it’s profess. Looks damn good.

Maman was horrified that I smuggled some food out of our hotel. A couple yogurts here and a few cheeses there. Add in some croissants — who was going to notice that anyway? I get hungry way too frequently to leave it to chance that hunger might strike in … a cemetary, of all places.

Oh yeah, nothing like the dead to work up one’s appetite. I’m telling you, I’ll always be able to eat.

Those people who starve themselves? No clue how they do it.

As it was, Maman was very happy I had that food with me. We had a wonderful snack. Hence my pic. She thought I should hide the evidence.

I didn’t.

Take special note: Sigg in view.

I decidedly decided that when the time comes for me to check out here on Earth, I’d like to be in Pere La Chaise.

Maman was a bit shocked at how I could think of such a thing, but how could I not? We were in a cemetery, after all.

And. I like the idea of knowing some part of me will be floating around indefinitely.

Making my presence known.

Like I said: Inspiring.