Things Left Behind

What will be left when you die?

Bones, of course.
Blackening skin. 
A new home for hundreds of bugs and their offspring.
A jar of ashes, if that's the route you chose.
   I hear you can have them sent into space now,
   Or buried with a tree.

I imagine there'll be some property, too.
Once-new furniture, now thoroughly outdated. 
A car.
A house. 
An apartment.
The artwork that once hung upon their insides.
   The things that made those prefabricated walls your own.

Speaking of walls, 
Some may toss about a few cliched idioms involving them
And what they might say about you had they been gifted with speech.

There will be people left, too.
Children, if that was your lot in life.
Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren.
Perhaps a few good friends, if you were fortunate enough to find some.
What will be in their hearts when they get the news?
Will it be grief?
Will it be nostalgia?
Or will it be relief?
Or a sense of justice?

What will they say in that ambiguous time
After the clergy have driven back to their quarters?
After the last line of the eulogy is read?
After the last note of "Taps" has been delivered?

Will they say "They'll be missed, but they're in a better place now"?
Will they make some tear-choked remark about all you did while you were here?
Or would they say something, but refrain,
   Finding it improper to speak ill of the dead?
Will anyone have shown up at all?

These people will know it's the end of an era.
Will they be sad about it?
Or relieved because of it?

What will they think of what you have wrought?
Will they try to preserve it
   And hold it up as a shining example of humanity?
Or will they be ashamed of it
   And try to put it in the ground with you?

So, dear reader,
Now that you've had some time to think,
I'll ask you again:
What will be left when you die?