Remember

Recently, a friend died. He was only 63. He was a great guy, a decent, kind, capable man. I wrote something about him and published it here. It made me think of an entire life, of his too-short life. And the finality of that moment when he was no longer here. The profundity of it, the inevitability of it. How can you not think of your own mortality when that happens?

I was thinking about the elegy, the obituary, the remembrance, whatever you want to call it. And the simple act of talking about someone after they’ve gone. A lot of people I know don’t do that. My family, for one. Makes them sad. But I think it keeps the dearly departed alive when you talk about them. We’re here for a brief time, and the we’re gone. And maybe, too soon, forgotten.

Will anyone know I was here? Do you think about that? Worry?

I worry that I will vanish, like vapor rising out of a tea kettle. How long does it take to be forgotten?  How long before they don’t recall my birthday, the way I walked, my face, my voice?  How long before my name is brought up once a week, once a month, once a year, then never?  

I would like to imagine that after I’m dead and gone, my partner, my sister or my brother, or a friend will be sitting in a café in New York City, and, apropos of nothing, just because the thought hit them, perhaps with a touch of wistfulness and small delight, say, “Nobody loved New York more than Rich.  He would be so happy to be here now, watching the people go by.” 

There would be a small pause. The thought would linger very briefly, and then it would be gone. The day would continue, living lives would go on.  But for a small spotlight of time, I would be there, not exactly alive, but in some real way I would be with those who are.