I have a very clear memory of the man who died one year ago today. He is sitting at my mom's counter with a cup of coffee in hand. It's likely the work day is over and he's come to pick up his son. His hair is a little too long and he has the beginning of a 5:00 shadow. He kisses the top of my head and asks me what I'm reading. He is as much a part of my every day as piano lessons and my brother's GI Joes.
Of course I hope there is some sort of existence after death. Chances to intermingle with the people we love, to watch the world change, and find answers to the questions we forgot to ask. But I also hope, with what I imagine is a touch of narcissism, that I have woven threads of who I am into the fabric of others' lives.