[Pakistan]

We walked across to the “Field of Martyrs,” graves of men recently killed in the war with Russia. Next to me was a photographer from the Chicago Sun Times, and the scene got him talking about his own legacy, in this case the body of photographs he wanted to leave behind.

It got me thinking that night. I’m always perplexed at the idea of “legacy.” It can be such an odd, self-aggrandizing, ego-filled notion. For me, there’s nothing more than living my life day to day in as virtuous a fashion as I can muster. That’s it. While I’d like my children to derive strength and a certain warmth from my memory, I can’t help but know that when I’m gone, I’m pretty much gone.

Many make wonderful, lasting contributions to the world. But they don’t have to be aware of themselves doing it.

I think to myself about my great grandmother, who died when I was ten. She had four children. Three of her beloved children have now died, which triggers in me a kind of existential sadness when I imagine her. Think of it: Her children have died. And this is the case with all our ancestors.

To my great, great, great, great, great grandchildren, I will be but one of 128 great, great, great, great, great grandparents! Very quickly, I’m but one of many. Within this period of 130 or so years any memory of me will be completely gone. It all gets diluted really quickly.