What is Left Behind
What is left behind
The death of a friend recently and the memorial service that followed reminded me of other lost friends and the vacuum left by their absence. I don’t know for sure what my thinking will be when I come to the end of the line, but as close as I’ve come a couple of times, it didn’t seem to make that much difference. But being the one left behind is another thing altogether. I’ve always thought the wakes, memorials or funerals are less about the one who’s dead than the people who are still alive. The living need comforting, and we come together to remind ourselves we are not alone. We go about our lives thinking of those around us as being touchstones in our lives: something that will always be there to secure our identity and existence. So how much diminished are we by losing them?
Then there’s the issue of. . .issue. Other than continuing our genetic lines, our family, by having children, how is the world changed, improved or diminished, by our having lived? What difference would it make if we hadn’t been born? If we create art that outlives us, if we build structures that endure 100, 200 or 2000 years, does that mean that’s how long we continue, or some piece of us continues to exist? Do we have to be in a body, or do we get some level of being from being in the hearts of living people?
At the memorial I went to, the man who died had many, many connections in the community, and though his body was gone, in many hearts and minds, he was still a presence. Assuming most of them will remember him 20 or 30 years from now, will his life be extended by that much?
I inherited a box of letters exchanged among my relatives between 1880 and 1947. In them are clues to what happened to them and why they did what they did. In a letter from my great grandmother to my grandmother, she explains why as a 17 year-old girl she gave her daughter up for adoption when her husband abandoned them. The fact that I’m descended from these people and can read these letters give them existence, to me, half a century after they’ve died. My wife has a maple table built by an ancestor, H. M. Hayes, in 1839 (signed, in pencil, on the bottom) as well as a painting of him and his wife. They have more meaning in the family than they would to outsiders: the table is simple and a little worm-eaten, and the paintings are not the work of a master. Did Mr. Hayes think that the table would still be used by family member 168 years later?
There's a stone with his name on it, alongside his wife's, in a little town in Vermont. The stone refers to his being in heaven forever, but I doubt it. As a human, the thought of an afterlife is so tempting, so comforting, it seems fabricating myths about the sweet by and by would be necessary for us to cope with something as scary and humbling as death.
And for me, I hope the houses I’ve built, the buildings I’ve had a hand in building, or the letters, blogs, and articles I’ve written will give me some degree of immortality.
But really all this talk of immortality is an attempt to negate the fact that we are temporary. Though we’re hardwired to procreate, there’s also a sort of existential compulsion to have children to continue the family, continue yourself, after you’re dead. Something there is in us that refuses to believe all this turmoil, all this joy, and the importance we assign ourselves will one day end and completely vanish.
Knowing this, it seems to me the quantity of life matters less than the quality. I doubt I’ll have scores of people show up to remember me, but to have had a positive effect on their lives, whether they know it or not, will have made