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On a spring Sunday three years ago, my wife, Carol, and I drove out to the Palisades Cemetery, which I hadn't visited in forty years. The place was harder to find than I'd expected, and we had to ask for help at the back door of one of a row of wooden houses that ends with an antique store near the corner of Route 9W. Redirected, we poked our way up a little private driveway and then through some tall shrubs to find the graveyard. It was a quiet, foggy morning, and once there I felt as if we'd walked into a green-and-gray room furnished with leaning stones. Many had surfaces thickened with lichen and decay, where inscriptions had become indistinct, with some words missing. ...