Fade Out
Here’s how you disappear from the world. There is a tiny picture on the wall between two mirrors in our bathroom. It is nondescript. It was put there by my late wife. It is an old picture, nicely framed, taped in place with backing paper. The paper and tape are coming apart, however, and the wire that holds the picture to the wall is unwound and frayed. It has seen better days.
I have no idea how the picture came into our possession. It meant something to my wife. however. Perhaps it belonged to her mother or grandmother. Perhaps it was given to her as a present by a friend. It’s obviously a homemade project. Someone selected the picture and framed it. Then it came into my wife’s possession. But the provenance is gone. The trace of the previous owner is lost, and now the picture is adrift with no meaning other than it’s existance.
And when I go that’s what will happen to me. The kids will sell the house. The possessions will be divided. Maybe the grandkids will take some. The totems of those I loved, my little pictures on the wall, my memories of their owners, will drift off into the cosmos to become knick-knacks in another home, evidence of no one in particular. And the world will trundle on. And that seems fair. After all, the world is for the living, which seems blindingly obvious when you really think about it. And one day soon, I’ll probably take down that picture.