There was once a man who was a good observer. He paid a lot of attention to everything that surrounded him.

        One day, he felt like going to a city called Kammir, and after walking for two days through dusty paths, he finally saw it at the end of the road. Just before the city, he noticed a hill on his right hand side. It was covered with green grass, it had many trees, birds and marvellous flowers.

        Everything was enclosed with a varnished fence. A small bronze door was an invitation to get in.

        He decided to explore the place better. He went in and walked slowly through the white rocks scattered amongst the trees. He allowed his eyes to dance like butterflies halting in each detail of that multicoloured paradise.

        As he was always very attentive, he found out, amongst the rocks, the following engraving: Abdul Tareg lived 8 years, six months, two weeks and three days.

        He felt a bit anguished when he realized that it was not only a rock, it was actually a gravestone. He felt sorry when he thought that such a small child was buried there. Looking around, he noticed that the next stone also had something written on it.

        He got next to it and read: Yamir Kalib, lived five years, eight months and three weeks.

        The man felt very disturbed.

        That beautiful place was a cemetery, and each stone marked a tomb. He started reading each one of the inscriptions, and they were all very similar: they gave the name of the person and the exact age he or she had when they died.

        However, what really made him feel upset was that the oldest one was only eleven years old.

        He was suddenly invaded by a strong pain, he sat down and started to cry.

        The person who looked after the cemetery was passing by and approached him.

        He stood silent for a while, looking at the man who was crying, and after some time asked if he was crying because of someone from his family.

        No, no one from my family. - Answered the visitor.

        Could you tell me what happens in this city? What is going on here? Why are there so many children buried in the same place? What horrible curse fell upon these people that a children’s cemetery is needed?

        The old man smiled and said: Calm down. There is no curse. What happens is that we have an old tradition. I will tell you about it.

        When a youngster turns fifteen, his parents give him a notebook, like the one I have around my neck.

        It is a tradition amongst my people that after that age, every time we enjoy something very much, we make a note in this notebook. On the left, we write what we enjoyed, and on the right, we make a note about the time it lasted.

        That is how we write. If we meet a young lady and fall in love with her, how long did it last, and for how long lasted the pleasure of knowing her? A week? Two? Three?

        After that, the pleasure of the first kiss, how long did it last? Half a minute? Two days? A week? What about pregnancy and the birth of your first child?

        That so expected trip, for how long did we actually enjoy it? The meeting with that brother who lives abroad; for how long do we take pleasure in these situations? Hours? Days? Months?

        So we write down, in our notebooks, each moment we took pleasure in, each minute that was worth something.

        Later on, when somebody dies, it is our costume to open this notebook and add all the minutes of joyful time in order to be written on the tombstone, because that is, in reality, the only time one really lived.

* * *

        When we put the time we live on Earth on a scale, what is really worth is the good and profitable time we lived.

        Think about it!

Spiritist Moment Team, based on story by unknown author.
May 02 2008.