What will be left when I am gone?

When I have nothing left, what will you find?

When my body is still and finally at peace, what will be resting with me?

The clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet, nothing more than stitched fabric. And yet, my garments could tell you more about me than any photo.

Photos of times I do not remember, trinkets collected along my travels, they surround me but they do not speak for me.

The house slippers placed neatly beside my door, worn everyday until the soles rubbed to near nothing. Never to go outside the house, for fear of bringing something unwanted into the home. The well-loved knitted cardigan, the color of my eyes, frayed strands poking out from under loose stitches. The victim of a nervous habit, picking at the loops until they unravel the soft security shroud. The necklace of sterling that never once left my neck, its woven pendant gently resting on my chest. The only piece of jewelry that could warm my heart, but to the untrained eye is only cold metal on a cold form.

When it is just me, and I cannot speak for myself, what will be seen? What will be known? What will be assumed?