Walking through the crowded tombstones in Highgate Cemetery, I am reminded that death comes to us all. Some of those buried here lived long and historically memorable lives, while others died before they could spread their wings–forever young. Where do our memories go after death, those unique experiences that make up the core of who we are? Are they released into the atmosphere or buried with our bodies in the earth? Do cemeteries harbour memories of the dead? My mother believes in the rapture, when the dead are released from the bowels of the earth to join the living as they ascend into the heavens. I want to believe there is a rapture for memory, that our experience of this life remains intact, that death doesn’t erase, but instead preserves in its dark cocoon those moments that made us human, waiting to be released. There are wildflowers in bloom on the graves of the long forgotten, bluebells, Queen Anne’s lace, and dandelions. The wind ripples through them, an audience of colour, and they nod their knowing heads as though listening, enraptured by the whisper of leaves in the canopy overhead.