Hanging on to one last thing hotly, you can’t just let go

Hanging on to one last thing hotly, you can’t just let go.
Letting go would be like dying, and then there would be no one to know
About how you lived, why you lived and why you mattered.
You can’t let go of that last piece of useless information
That you paid so dear a price for,
That a thousand people or more
Obtained or made their own for free.
You just need that one thing that is you, that one thing that is yours,
You can let go of everything else, but you have to hang on to at least one thing.
To call it vision would be charitable, to label it your binkie would be condescending, to imply it was your bone would make you less than human.
To say that you want the world to know that you mattered and why you lived and how you lived–that is really too easy, cheap and obvious.
You frankly don’t care if your name is forgotten along with your face, if the final death report lists you as being five inches shorter or taller, or with green eyes instead of blue.
Actually, if the world remembers your son or brother or wife or mother, or father or some distant nephew, all the better.
So then, why exactly do you hold on to this one last thing?
Are you not completely convinced that when you die you won’t slip off into a never-ending abyss?
Are you not 100% satisfied that the world might not be a better place without you?
Are you hoping to stay on as a ghost, embedded in these words?
No, you are simply a selfish soul–convinced that because you have ego and form you must have one thing on this earth that is all yours.
But, nothing belongs to you, nothing ever did.
You had a gift, a time to rent, a shared moment, a sparing, a mercy, a chesed, an undeserved reprieve, a probation.
You came, looked around, puzzled over what you saw, and left.
And when you left, you left behind only that which belongs to someone else.

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