Of course, there are memorial plaques for my father and grandmother --nametags for the dead. Those markers have the usual name, year of birth, and year of death dates. My father's plaque has "82nd Division WWII" cut into the copper surface, too. After he died, my mother and I agreed that it was a simple way to memorialize the time spent in service that lead to his award of the Bronze Star. For me, it symbolized the quiet hero who never spoke of the action he saw in the coral caves of the Phillipine Islands. It was a tribute to a man who simply did what he had to do, without applause, every day of his life.
There is no name-tag for my mother, no date she was born, and no year she died. There are the remains of an impersonal bouquet of artificial flowers, a flag, and a Memorial Day Poppy my son and I placed on the grave in May. When the new Spring grass finally joins the growth that surrounds my father and grandmother's markers, and when the cemetery's caretaker clears the fragments of the decorations, her grave will become just be another patch of green and no one will ever, again, be the wiser.