Iteresting article in the Guardian, suggests one should think about what would endure for future archaeologists, of one's life. I felt inspired to write the following:
My Personal Archaeology
What would endure?
Not my laptop, which would decay into a sticky pool of plastic
Not my writing, which has burned in the heart of who I am
Not my children, who became my life, my joy and my reason,
Not me.
I propel myself forward
Watch decay set in as my ivy takes over the world,
My box of important things
Now probably a mush of family history papers
Coins I never learned to collect, a broken watch
My Life would speak incoherently
Glass bottles of long-gone vitamins
Would mislead about my care of my health
Scented oils and bottles for this and that...mirrors...
Might make one think I worried about how I look.
It would be random: glass beads scattered,
Sand-washed glass
Ugly porcelain mementos of beautiful friendships
The twisted frames of a hundred frozen moments
Stones and shells with no purpose but themselves.
I have concluded what lies about my life
Would lie about my life, so
Does it lie about those others I have watched
As Time Team discovers
Their bones, their bowls, and a series of small walls?
Or did they leave more durable memorials than I?
No emails, no letters, no life online
No excess possessions to deceive
No books, no gadgets, no plastic
Just the trusty stone, metal, glass
But then again, maybe the most important elements
Are not written on the ephemera or
bound up in the enduring ceramic, but
Are written on the hearts of others
Drifting forever in the dust which lights the stars
