I flip through my facebook pictures, the comments. Memory staggers by, sometimes clear, other times faded and foggy. Sighs in the past, senses I can almost touch, dancing just outside of my reach.
Everyone has a piece of a puzzle I can hardly remember.
When I look back in my life, in 30 some odd crumbling, magical years, I remember what I can, and in some cases, what I want. Some memories lost, some delayed, some detoured and confused.
In memory of my actions, in memory of my inabilities, i find myself questioning my goodness, my worthiness.
An old friend drunkenly online tells me I was formative, I was meaningful, that I mattered.
Did I? Do I? Have I? When my bones break down and one of you throws me to the memory of trade winds and agony, will there be anything more left in the world than I started it with? Children sure, but will their legacy matter? Will they conquer or destroy? Or will they just be, as so many of us have, the magic possibility of childhood distilled down to the quiet realization that we are all just us, and no more?
Will I matter? Have I mattered?
Will any of us?
I wonder why I think it remains, this urge at immortality, this need to have affected someone, somewhere, to have nudged the fates in directions they weren't otherwise given. Why the drive for remembrance, when even I sometimes forget where I've been?
Why do I need to know?
I will last. I will be forever, for awhile. My mother lives through me, in sparse stories I can hardly remember, the womb which bore me manifests in my eyebrows and the cheekbones my daughters carry. My body will break apart and become others, flowers, thunderstorms, tears.
But I won't be. And suddenly, that matters.