A friend of mine lost a friend of hers a couple of weeks ago. He was married with two kids aged five and seven, and he died of a sudden, massive heart attack. He was 44 years old.
I’ve never met this man, but as I spoke to my friend about his death I broke out in tears. There are so many people affected by this. His wife, his relatives, who live out of the country and haven’t seen him in years, and his co-workers and friends who greatly respected him. But what I can’t stop thinking about is his children. His children will likely not remember him. Not as a person. Not as a father. Only as a picture and a handful of vague memories. And that breaks my heart. When I go to that dark place and imagine myself dying young, that is what I panic about. That my kids will not know me. That they wouldn’t know what I liked, what I disliked, what made me smile, how much I loved them.
It is one of the reasons I am glad I blog. It’s not much, but regardless of when I leave this world, my children will always have at least a small, personal part of me to keep.