At first, sadness, weeping, grief. So much. Too much.
I can see them all, grieving for me. There are flickers of laughter. A relief.

Then, more crying. Eventually more laughing. More joy.

I see a room. I see my family. I see grandchildren.
They think of me here. A lot at first, then less and less.

They tell stories. The stories change me.
They are not my stories. They are close. But not my life.

I am changing. I am not just remembered. I am memories.

My granddaughter never met me. But she writes me. Writes a life so much like mine. I am alive within it.

The story is read by many. I live and die every time.
This story is me now. I only just remember my real life.

I am so many places. Bus stops, classrooms, bathrooms, bookstores.
Everywhere I am read, I live. But it is not my life.

I am in a theatre. She is here, reading me to hundreds of people. So many. They all remember me, this new me.
Now, there is a body here. I am in it. It is made of words and memories. Like mine but not mine.

I am alive, but I am not myself.