Siegen, Germany. At the last funeral in our family one of my relatives half-jokingly, half-seriously entered the burial vault to find out how many places were still available in our family grave. This ornate little building on a graveyard in the German town of Siegen was built by my great-great-grand parents, and every generation since followed sooner or later. They established a powerful place that became a focal point for the extended and scattered family. Would I, too, one day be buried there, and my family as well? Why in a city where I have not spent even one night ever in my life? Why migrating back to a place that is generations away from me? Why a permanent place at all?
On the other side of my family, this question does not occur. In the Hindu religion there is no such thing as a last resting place. The dead body is cremated, and the ashes are then spread into a river. The one such occasion that I attended left a deep impression on me. After a minute or two it was all over. Dissolved into the water. No traces left. Gone. The river flows on. So does life. No chance for place-making, here, in the middle of a stream.