How do I hope my family remembers me?

I don’t think I want to be remembered as perfect. Not as someone who had everything figured out, or someone who never made mistakes. That kind of memory feels distant… almost untouchable. I’d rather be remembered as real.

I hope my family remembers me in moments, not just in words.

In the way I laughed when something was genuinely funny. In the quiet times when I just sat with them, no pressure, no expectations—just being there. I hope they remember the things I created, the pieces of myself I left behind in stories, ideas, and the worlds I built when reality felt too small. I want them to remember that I felt deeply—that I loved hard, even if I didn’t always say it perfectly.

I hope they remember that I tried. Through everything, I tried to be present, to care, to leave something meaningful behind.

And when I’m gone, I don’t want my memory to feel heavy or final. I want it to feel… carried.

That’s why I imagine my ashes not just resting somewhere distant, but becoming something symbolic. I want part of me to be placed in an Anubis canopic jar—a guardian of the threshold, a quiet nod to my beliefs, my identity, and the way I’ve always been drawn to the space between worlds. Not as something eerie, but as something sacred. Protected. Watched over.

And for the people closest to me, I want pieces of me to stay with them—literally. Small portions of my ashes set into resin, made into pendant necklaces. Not as something morbid, but as something intimate. Something they can hold when they miss me. Something that reminds them I’m still with them in a different way.

Not gone—just changed.

Because more than anything, I hope I’m remembered as someone who didn’t just pass through life, but someone who left warmth behind. Someone whose presence, even after death, still feels close.

Not in a haunting way.

But in the quiet comfort of knowing

love doesn’t really leave—it just takes on a different form.