Elizabeth Clemons Welch’s family memorialized her on a lovely granite bench among the light green bushes, leaving a space for those visitors to rest and ponder the quote that encapsulates her life story: “What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone moments, but what is woven into the lives of others.” — Pericles. 

I saw this at Yale’s Grove Street Cemetery when I first traveled to the West Coast by myself, alone. It was a bright summer day, and birds were chirping, bushes were swishing, and the sun was shining through layers of leaves, reaching the land of last-century memorials. Rather than a burial place of death, it appears more like a boundless hall of life. I don’t know if it’s because of the weather, because of the friend who accompanied me, because of the music played on my earphones, or because of the memories I carried, the cemetery resonates with me. Indescribable thoughts flow as I roam around with the leaves rustling gently in, wind, and squirrels scampering about. I did not fully understand what I was feeling, apart from simply “unusual.”

“Stop taking pictures,” said the new friend I met at Yale’s summer program, with a traditional Chinese mindset that taking pictures of graves is ominous. 

“Okay, okay, but I really like it here.”

The two of us, desultory, circled the cemetery, reading the names and dates of those now long gone, found ourselves in front of the grave of a musician. I searched for the song title that was carved on his gravestone and intently listened to the beautiful, melancholy notes. Melancholy, a word I associate with the song after knowing it was a posthumous work. Knowing that the creator of this miraculous work had passed, I appreciated this work as a gift that transcends death; the tranquil, bittersweet sentiments engulfed me all at once.

My visit to the cemetery ended as dusk began to fall over New Haven. It had been sobering yet reflective to see history preserved in headstones, but I was just as eager to travel to the next destination to reunite with a childhood friend, now living in Canada. Settling into the car, my mind couldn’t help but keep thinking about the hallowed grounds and imagining where my body would end in years. Soon the lights of New Haven completely vanished, paving the way for a new adventure in Boston.

We realized how much each of us had changed the moment we reconnected. There was no way not to engage in conflict within ten sentences due to the intrinsic difference in our habits and values that shaped us into opposite beings. We were eleven when she first said goodbye and now at sixteen things were different.  

The first thing that came to my mind when I met her at the airport was how drastically different she looked, except for her fierce and assertive eyes.

“Why aren’t you talking to me? Don’t you miss me at all?” Carsey asked with annoyance.  

“I don’t know. I said hello and hugged you.”

“Bruh,” she replied and stared into my soul. 

I had no idea what the expression meant. I don’t know why I didn’t explain more. I feel like I’m gradually departing from my childhood, yet my childhood friend is a concrete representation of such. I cannot explain this, just like I cannot explain why I prefer silence.  

My thoughts were muddled and perplexing: childhood felt simultaneously close yet far away, with a feeling of nostalgia and apathy at the same time.

Later that night, I told her to stop staring into her phone and just turn off all the lights and get some rest. She refused me abruptly with her mantra, “None of your business.” Well, at least this trait of hers did not change. I sighed and went to sleep without saying anything more, facing the darker side of the room. After an eternity, she switched off the lights. I felt her move closer, her body seeking warmth and comfort. But the closeness arose a sense of discomfort. I gently pushed her away, my voice quivering as I confessed that I was currently dating someone, and her intimacy felt inappropriate. Although, logically speaking, dating someone, and having a good friend didn’t clash, there was just a feeling that compelled me to reject her intimacy. 

With an air of confusion, Carsey said, “Back in all the summer and winter camps, you used to always put your arms around me.”

I don’t remember that,” I lied.

“What I’m saying is a fact.”

“How?” I asked maintaining my disingenuous position on the topic.

Perhaps I grew old and wanted personal space. Maybe, a lot of personal space. This is another thing I couldn’t understand about myself. 

During the days we spent together, all the nights were either like this, sleeping with eye masks and Carsey flipping through her phone. She would then sleep at around four or five o’clock and sleep through the entire morning. So, in the morning, I would hang out by myself: go for walks or read books in the downstairs hotel lobby. One day, I returned from my solitary wanderings, and she asked, “Where’s my breakfast?”

I paused, perplexed. She rarely awoke before breakfast.

In silence and confusion, I thought, why would she need breakfast at noon? The words that came out of my mouth were: “You didn’t tell me to.”

“You don’t even care about me,” she retorted. 

Again, no explanation was given. I seemed to consider her a family member and wanted to escape her control by evading all communication with her. But what is the incentive for me to do so?

“Why aren’t you as talkative? Or did you just stop talking to me,” she asked while I stared at my phone. 

I didn’t know how to respond because that was true, I spent too much time communicating with my new friends, and I left the old ones behind. 

My visit to another cemetery would soon reveal the profound truth hidden within Elizabeth Clemons Welch's quote on the bench gravestone. While Carsey was still sleeping, I couldn't help but find myself drawn to another resting place. This time, a smaller, less grandiose cemetery was nestled beside a peaceful park. The sky was painted with orange and pink hues as the sun descended behind the buildings, casting a warm glow on the gravestones.

As I walked around the headstones, not only did the same feeling of visiting Yale’s cemetery come back, but I also reflected on the conflicts I had experienced with my childhood friend. Such a tranquil setting seems to be a great place for contemplation and introspection. 

It was then that I had a revelation that seemed to flow from the very essence of the place. Life is fleeting, and the tensions and misunderstandings between me and Carsey suddenly felt insignificant. The delicate balance of existence was too precious to be marred by trivial conflicts.

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone moments, but what is woven into the lives of others” should not be something that only matters after people have passed on, but should be a part of everyday life: What you weave into the lives of others is not engraved in stone moments but leaves a lasting mark on the living. 

Upon returning to Carsey, I could sense the change within myself. I no longer harbored the same irritations or felt the need for personal space as intensely. Instead, I embraced our interactions with a newfound patience and an eagerness to communicate because being able to reconnect with a childhood friend would become a precious memory for both of us in the future. I no longer shied away from explaining my emotions, fears, and aspirations to her; the same openness was reciprocated.

The tension that had once clouded our interactions dissipated like morning mist in the sun's warm embrace. Life is too short for grudges. Relationships are what we weave into the lives of others., Through engaging and embracing each moment, we can leave memorable marks. Though we both would need more time to adjust to each other’s new mindset and lifestyle, we agree the differences should be welcomed. 

With a lightened heart and a deepened understanding; I said farewell to Carsey as she headed to the airport. As I looked back, the memories I had from the trip were not just the verdant landscapes and the solemn headstones, but also the wisdom of life being too short for disputes and too beautiful not to cherish everything, everyone, and every moment.