Stone

When my name is chiseled on stone, detailed, polished, and left to the elements, who will remember me? Two decades, six years and some months, the question presents itself again. My toil, struggles, cares, worries and loves matter only while I breathe. When history writes my name in its endless pages, what will it say of me? A loving husband, father, friend, son? Or perhaps a mediocre worker with the spirit to try his best? Will my enemies celebrate my end? Maybe I'll quietly slip through, non dazzling, uneventful, bland. What will I say of myself when my consciousness goes? Did I live a life worth writing about? Will the stone see me worthy of remembrance?