Who Will Remember Us When We’re Gone?

At thirteen, he was the third boy I’d had a crush on in my short life. Ian lived close, and I would follow him on the walk to school, swooning at his auburn mullet and his bad-arse, super cool black ripples boots. He was not interested in me because I was neither pretty nor cool enough, although I did question his choices in girlfriends because some of them, in my opinion, were no better than me in the pretty or cool enough stakes. My crush on Ian lasted six months — give or take — and unrequited, I crushed on more achievable boys.

At twenty-seven, I discovered Ian was going to the same university as me. I bumped into him on campus and was pleased to remake his acquaintance. I ended up making out with him after a Friday night happy hour when we both had way too many half-price scotch and cokes. While my thirteen-year-old self would have been in opportunistic raptures, I didn’t enjoy his kisses. They were too wet for my liking. Ian wanted to pursue things, but I was in my avoidant attachment phase. I thought his mullet was dated and he didn’t seem as cool any more, so I set him up with a friend from uni. I’m not 100% certain but I think they got married. I lost touch with him as my own life unfolded in all its complexity.

In 2005, when I was forty-two, Ian died, although I didn’t find out about his death immediately. I heard it was suicide. I haven’t thought about him for a long time but for some inexplicable reason, he popped into my head yesterday. I searched Google to see if I could find where he was buried, like I did with my grandparents. I found out he died on 22 January 2005 — twenty years ago — almost to the day I thought about him again. He’s buried in Carinya Gardens Cemetery in Mt Gambier. I Googled again to find details of his death. Details of his life. Nothing. Apart from his final resting place and this photo, it’s as if he never existed. I’m hoping his family disagree and they talk about him often.

I remember Ian clearly, but I knew nothing about him. Not really. All I know is that he was sporty. Smart. Popular at school. Had brothers. He died just as the internet boomed, as we started leaving our digital footprints all over the world wide web. There is something to be said for the photos and videos and blogs we upload because actual photographs and home movies and journals and diaries can be destroyed. Lost.

While it seems that every second person has submitted their DNA to Ancestry, who among us remembers the names of their great-grandparents? Within three or four generations, those of us who live ordinary lives will largely be forgotten. We are born, we do stuff, then we die. We know people, people know us. Some of us lead good, solid, productive lives. Others live miserably, painfully. Our cards were dealt long before we were born by people we don’t know, let alone remember. In turn, we play our cards and then — if we have children — deal the hands of others, for a lineage of descendants who won’t remember us when we are gone. That is our fate, in the end.

555 words.

About the #MicroMemoir2025 Challenge

After successfully completing my #12Essays2024 Challenge — by the skin of my teeth, mind you! — I’ve set myself another writing challenge for 2025. This time, my challenge is to write 62 micro memoir pieces this year because I’ll be 62. I’ve done the maths: it’s one piece every five days or so. I got the idea from Deborah Sosin’s post on Brevity, where she wrote about the 70 x 70 word micro memoir pieces she crafted to commemorate/celebrate her 70th birthday. She ended up publishing these pieces as a book. Like Deborah, I enjoy the creative constraints of writing short pieces (and I’ve had some success writing flash fiction). I’ve done a number of Craft Talks workshops on writing micro memoir, but haven’t really written any. So, self, let’s get to it. Challenge accepted, although my word count will be a tad more lenient.

Image credit: me. Ian is in the front row, fourth from the left. I’m in the second row from the front, third on the left.