There are a dead man’s glasses on my kitchen table. And a dead man’s false teeth in my bathroom. It is strange – surreal even – to realise what is left of a life spent.
I am reminded of the words of Rickie Lee Jones:
What you wish for
What you think
The photographs you carry around
What whispers to yourself
When you’re finally gone.
- ‘Matters’ Rickie Lee Jones (Ghostyhead)
In case I am being more cryptic than usual, I should probably tell you; my grandfather passed away on Thursday night. My house has been a mad ball of energy as my parents field phone calls and entertain funeral directors and ministers of religion. I find myself periodically just “disappearing” to try and get some balance in my life, in my mind.
I actually don’t have any profound or interesting things to even tell you at this point. I doubt I will. Just a curious thing in the back of my mind, prodding, asking questions, making plans.
I wonder mostly what is the legacy of this man now no longer with us. I was pondering this thing when it occurred to me… We are his legacy. We, his family, are all he really left behind. His daughter, his sons, his grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Some photographs. Some small mementos. And some memories. Oh… and, I suppose, a pair of glasses and some false teeth.
I’ve wondered about this a lot. I suppose for slightly selfish reasons. Even at a very young age I’ve been bizarrely preoccupied with the concept of legacy. I’ve wondered long and hard what my contribution to the world might be. I want to be remembered. I want to make a difference. I want something people can go to when they think of me. I want some element of myself to go on and have a life even after my mortal coil has been exhausted.
Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate my grandfather’s contribution. Without it, I obviously wouldn’t be alive today. It is just not something I anticipate being able to provide to the world. No, my contribution shall be something else entirely.
I suppose all I can do now is try and support my family, as best as I can. That together we can come together and get some sense of closure, and move on with our lives.
My five year old nephew mentioned that he wished he was a “magic boy” so he could find a way of making everyone happy again. He lamented that he wasn’t able to do this. Yet I think he is a magic boy. I think he underestimates the magic he brings to our lives everyday.
When my grandfather’s wife passed away a few years ago, it was my nephew who brought a ray of hope and sunshine into another dismal day. I couldn’t understand it at the time. We were sitting in the car and I was taking photographs, when suddenly the door slammed closed seemingly by itself. (In actual fact the wind had something to do with it.) He laughed heartily. I discovered that I could replicate the act by exerting pressure on the car’s floor in a strategic place. He laughed, and I laughed. And he hugged us all. He was certainly magical.
I think we are all, in our own way, magical. I am reminded of something that MuggleSam once said to me:
I like to think, in our own way, we shall all save the world. One day.
