Traces of us

Yesterday I spent the afternoon at a memorial event for a friend and colleague who died during the first lockdown in 2020. The memorial was attended by family members and colleagues/friends and the stories told fully represented the personal and the professional identities of the man and the links, and overlaps, between the two. It was a heart-warming afternoon with so many people sharing memories which highlighted how dear he was to so many both at home and at work; how influential and inspirational, how clever but self-effacing, how funny and kind. I’m so glad I went.

The memorial took place in a city that I’m fairly familiar with but in a venue I’ve never been to before. Awake early, as I often am, I decided to take a morning walk from my hotel to work out where I needed to be later on. At 7am I met less than half a dozen people on my just over 10 minute journey. It was raining slightly but warm enough and pleasant to wander along such normally busy streets without having to weave around slower walkers or step out of the way of those coming in the opposite direction. The trip back was a little less quiet and by 8am (I stayed out for a while) the city was definitely awake. Returning just after 1pm in smarter clothes for the actual ‘do’ there where shoppers and sightseers galore and at 5pm as I retreated my steps I passed groups of young people already dressed and prepped for a night on the town. One constant on my four walks was a toddler’s shoe lost at a pelican crossing stopping place half way across a main road.

That I should come across this shoe on such a day seemed significant; poignant. The first thing that came into my mind was the six word short story/flash fiction often attributed to Ernest Hemmingway, although some suggest the story predates him. ‘For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn’ – a tiny tale that speaks of huge and terrible loss and grief. The owner of the shoe I photographed today, a girl I presume, might well be upset at losing such a lovely pink piece of footwear. One of my earliest memories is of crying when my mum tried to take of my first pair of red wellies. I went to bed in them in the end. Her parents might be upset too, especially if money is short. But even so in my mind’s eye I see an engaging, energetic child who in fun or temper kicked of her shoe. A child with a past and a long future with lots more upsets but hopefully much joy also, and many more pairs of shoes. Just like my friend, whose life we celebrated today, she (I know I’m being stereotypical here given the colour of the shoe) has (already) made an impact on those who love her, who engage and interact with her, and indeed on me, I stranger who has never met her. And even, also, the baby who didn’t live to wear the shoes in the never worn shoe story lived in someone’s, maybe many people’s, memory; their short life, or death before life, having impressed on the thoughts and feelings and maybe the future actions of others.

Across our lives, and even before our lives as independent beings begin, we are significant in the lives of others. We influence and inspire. We evoke emotion; both positive and negative. We support and encourage. We cause offense, make people happy, laugh, cry, think.

We leave traces, traces of us.