Whistling Echoes

I thought of Dad today, unexpectedly. Since my mom and sister moved to the new house, I've been alone, looking after the old place until we can sell it. It's very peaceful and quiet, which I like.

I was walking through the long open space between the kitchen and great room, heading toward the front door, when I absently started whistling. It was a tune from Phantom of the Opera, which caught me off guard for two reasons: 1) I hardly ever whistle anymore, and 2) I somehow unconsciously picked a tune Dad always seemed to be whistling, one of his go-tos. I was well into it before that double whammy registered, whistling into the open, echoing stillness of the high ceiling, slurring the notes together, just like he used to do.

It's funny, the things people leave behind. Their essences. In my case, it's hereditary. We whistle the same way because we're related. Seven years he's been gone. Nearly everything he ever owned - everything that was distinctly his - is now gone. Sold, donated, changed beyond recognition. The things that will never die are more deeply ingrained. The people who were dearest to him, that will never forget him. The people who will keep him alive as long as they themselves live.

It makes me consider how other people will remember me, the sort of legacy I want to leave behind. What little things will trigger memories for them, happy or sad or somewhere in between. I wonder how I might live on in the lives of others, years after I'm gone.