Yesterday, I reconnected with someone I've not seen since I was a child. We didn't have much time to catch up, but we covered some of the bigger points. When I mentioned that my dad and mom were both dead, she said, "I remember your dad. He was the only man I've ever known who had cocktails in the afternoon."
Interesting, that memory, and not entirely accurate. But that's not important. It's what she remembers. It's obviously her biggest and strongest memory of him, in fact. And not only am I kinda sad about that, but I know he'd be mortified to know that that's part of his legacy.
I'd never thought about that before--and felt slightly alarmed to realize that, only recently, I had a conversation with another childhood friend where I told her that the thing I most remembered about her dad was that he wouldn't shake anyone's hand lest he caught some germ. Now I wonder how knowing that landed for her. I'll have to ask.
I know we each can't live our lives based on what we think people will remember of us after we're gone, or what we want them to remember. That would be sheer insanity. I think all we can do is live our lives in the best ways we know how, and in ways that make us feel great, and hope that something good of us will be what carries on when we're gone.




















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