The faces glared at me, reflecting my image. They were all sad, all bleak. Our grandfather had just died. All us kids were very upset, with tear-stained faces and black dresses and suits. It was after the funeral, and we were all looking at photos we had taken with him. Ones of us at the beach, our faces red. Ones at his house, celebrating his birthday with the whole family. And most recent, when we visited him right before he died; we had gone on a family fishing trip, because we all knew Grandpa loved to fish.

After we had gone through all of them, we found a note in one of the albums. It read:

When you remember me, I don’t want you to see me as just me. I want all of you to see some of you in me. For example, Clarissa, you have my eyes, and John, you have my nose. So I challenge you not to remember me in these photos, but remember me through your looks, and your actions. Let me live on in you.

Frazzled now, we took a mirror out of his dresser. And one by one, we saw a little bit of him in us.