How am I to know you

 

The oldest headstone is like the earliest footprint.
We don’t know you, but we know you were here.
Like I and E, you came before.
Were you a writer as well?
A cobbler, working on worn shoes, mending leather straps?

There is not enough in our history books.
We can’t turn back enough pages to find you,
and our lights only shine forward.

What caught up to you—war, disease?
Did you have a good life?
The stone holds little more than your name.
The weather, like an eraser, has swept away
your smile and drowned out your laughter.

So how am I to know you?
Are these your friends scattered about?

What questions should I be asking?