Death. how does it conform to life?
do we take a path not taken, obscuring the journey we had made? or do we make it
easy for our loved ones to be able to find us
and ascribe memory to the loss?
myself, I am lucky. I think:
words, books, volumes—posterity is easy, perhaps to a damning fault.
could it be that one hundred and fifty years from now, my great-great-
granddaughter will try to find me and miss
all the signs and clues that are too obvious to me now in this life?
there will come a time when the battery will run low, and
there will be no way to charge or back-up, and she
will have to draw pictures in the dust that settled, and my memory
will be at her mercy, her will,
her whim, her beck-and-call.