A man once in our neighborhood poured a section of concrete. He wanted to fill in the small useless 3×3 patch of mowing strip between his driveway and his neighbor’s. As a kid, I could not resist the fresh smooth wet concrete to etch my name into eternity.
Finding a pointy stick a little smaller than a pencil, I left my mark.
The next day, I revisited. I hoped to admire my handy work and foray into permanent history.
My name was gone. Erased and concealed in the hardened, smooth slab.
“Are you the one that marked up my driveway?” The voice called out from the open garage. My neighbor emerged from the shadows.
“Um, no sir.” I said and then reinforced my innocence by running off. My name carved in stone had lasted only a few moments after I had left it.
A Roman soldier had better luck.
The unknown sentry on a construction project stepped on wet mortar, leaving his signature with the bottom of his shoes. No neighbor erased his effort.
Years later, archeologists found them. 2000 year old foot prints. Immortality achieved.
You never know who history will choose.