That I took these photos three years and three months ago is irrelevant, because they are a tribute to timelessness itself. I could be posting them last year or next or in a decade. They were taken in Copenhagen’s largest cemetery, Vestre Kirkegård. What commanded my attention was the private tender feeling these gravestones memorialize. People missing people. Hearts and hugs and words of gratitude. Longing made universal, but quaintly so. Thank you for everything. Sleep sweetly. We love you. Now those are some woke epitaphs.

Celebrated on the second day of November, All Soul’s Day in Poland is one of the nation’s high holidays. Allegedly there’s more intercity travel at this time of year than at any other, Christmas included. People visit graves in droves, bring chrysanthemums, light death lanterns. But there are no hearts in sight, no toys or beer cans, no teddy bears. In Poland dying is a solemn affair and so is missing the dead. Crosses, wreaths, thorny roses, wistful elegies, somber engravings: that is the currency of Polish remembrance.

I like the way cemeteries are as verdant as parks, but quiet and viscous with nostalgia. But the older I get the more I like my nostalgia simple and sweetened with affection. It’s clearly a spiritual skill to hold grief close and let it stay an everyday, whispered thing, softened by laughter. Danes are naturals at this. It is one of many reasons I am grateful—even proud—that my son is half Danish. And it is one of the things I will love about Denmark if I ever make it my home someday.