Ancient and forgetable.

The world was already old when I was born. I tumbled into its ancient, incomplete story just as one day I will drop out of it, unnoticed by most and soon to be forgotten. Even the memory of me will one day be gone; it will probably survive a while in the minds of my grandchildren but then people will stop talking about me, descendants will look at family photographs, point and ask who I am, and no-one will have an answer. My own grandparents' faces are still easily recalled among my siblings but my children cannot recognise them. My great grandparents are now only dark, faceless impressions, ghostly memories, though I do remember the hearses that took away their bodies so I assume they must have been real at some time. By the time I follow after them there will be no trace left to say that they were here other than faded ink on parchment that itself will one day crumble and fall apart. But for now my birth and childhood are vividly held in my parents' minds. My brothers hold other parts, and yet more episodes sit half-forgotten in the unstable memories of school friends. Most of the people I have met along the road have already thought it not important to hold onto whatever snatches of life we shared briefly. My children take care of other impressions and my wife of others still. As one by one their memories or bodies will fail, a part of me will die till there is nothing left.