I often ask myself,

a morbid question I do admit:

When my life is done,

when my memorial candle is lit,

what will be my eulogy,

How will they remember me?

 

I often fear that

I will simply be a smiling face,

lost to all the others,

who matured with pride and with grace.

When they see what they want to see

is this how they'll remember me?

 

I often observe that

it is in death that faults are overlooked.

I suppose it is in bad taste

to point to the unbalanced, the crooked,

when all are stricken with grief.

But what if that's how I want them to remember me?

 

By my blemishes, my wrongs,

my scars and my failures so long

covered up in life and in death ignored.

But remember that in dying there is no reward

for perfection.

 

I not so often realize that

perhaps I am only to blame

for it is in living practice

that I put these hopes to shame.

laughter that is insincere and forced ,

pretending to be what I am not

Justifiably of course.

Because who would want to remember that other me?

 

I often tell myself,

a hopeless statement I do admit:

When my life is done,

when my memorial candle is lit,

when they read my eulogy,

I can promise they will remember me.