When I die they will find my remains scattered like stubborn glitter to the furthest reaches of Florida to heights of my beloved Virginia. Partial remnants will be detected in cookie crumbs resting in the crevices of my Lazy Boy. I will live forever when I die, for I have lived.

The threads of my hand-knitted dishcloths have cleansed many a counter, pot, and drinking glass. Every red, brown, green and blue strand wound through my fingers—stitch by stitch. It will live forever even when the cotton is frayed, burned, and stained, spilling out my prayers for the recipient.

When they dredge through my belongings they will discover journals of various dimensions, labels, and contents. These books hold my gratitudes, memories, ideas, non-religious rants, prayers, so many prayers. These words are written by a passionate heart, angry pen, tearful celebrator, and hopeful soul. These short and long phrases and one-word sentences will live forever through these scraps tucked into some restless mind seeking inspiration. They will resonate like a title-less song to a bleeding wound. These words will live forever for I am scraps scattered all over the world.

My soaps, my stamps, my bookmarks, ornaments, afghans, quilts, drapes, recipes, cakes, pictures, cards, letters, stories—so many stories seem buried yet they furiously knock upward from the soil like a newly resurrected sprout. They gather with speed greater than gravity releases, as they soar to places not initially intended. I’m scattered—my goodness, my evil deeds, my remorse all over the planet. Nothing stops its hungry reach.

Scraps of me, like confetti strewn over Times Square, float freely through the atmosphere as thoughtlessly as picking my teeth after a steak dinner.

My white crooked feet clad in leather straps mingled with other folks today as we shuffled soil from places near and extremely far away. Without consideration we walked on tiny grains of dirt lodged in our treads, dirt originating in countries of unknown names. We mixed together, carrying the weight of one another’s burdens, every weary walk in this world.

So cold. I slipped my hand into the pocket of Mom’s coat. My fingers bumped against butterscotch candy, her remedy for diabetes’s trouble. I smiled. She, too, remains though long since gone. The sweetness of her message warmed “all” of me with her nearness, for she too was scattered like pieces of paper.