An anniversary day passes every day of your life which you never acknowledge, but it will be on your gravestone. The minimal message on your stone will be your first name, perhaps with a nickname, possibly a middle initial, and then your family name. Along with these will be your date of birth and your date of death. It is curious that all of this information is well known to you except for that last date. You probably can not even guess the decade you will die in, and that is especially true if you are young, but even a centenarian has a life expectancy of two years, and a 76 year old has eleven years.
It is strange that we live our lives and come to such an end, with only a few chiseled grooves on a stone, of almost arbitrary things about our true selves, placed over the withered remains of what were once the important active ingredients of what was once us. Even that stone will eventually return to dust, and then as Hamlet says, the rest is silence. (Act V Scene 2, line 4020) Recline in silence. Rest in silence. Rest in oblivion. Emptiness of thought. All of the former.
I take comfort in the fact that once upon a time, for a few moments, I participated in life.
Once at distant time I too loved this place.