One Box

It's sad to think that
All the effort one puts into
Their life to give it meaning--
When they're gone, their effort is too.

To think unless you're famous
Or infamous, your whole life
Is reduced to a box of pictures,
Or pages in a journal--it cuts like a knife.

No one to remember who or what
You were.  Old pictures and papers that
Eventually end in the trash.  No one
To care about your thoughts--they're old hat.

As you live your life, you hope
You've touched lives in a good way.
So even if they don't quite remember you,
They'll remember feeling good those days.

Nobody remembers your kindness
Or sadness when you're gone.
All that's left is a box of pictures
And journal pages you scribbled on.

At least up in Heaven,
God knows you are His child, and
Whether people remember you or not--
He knows everything, and takes your hand.