Being Remembered
by Robert Bruning
My grandfather, my mother's father
was an engineer - a good one.
During the First World War,
the Vickers Company seconded him to Britain
to help in the production of munitions.
Important work, they said, that will help us defeat the Hun.
But if he hoped to be remembered for it, he was wrong.
I'm among the last survivors
of all his descendents who actually knew him
and whenever I think of him these days,
(which I admit is not all that often),
it's not at all related to his war effort.
What I most remember him for
is a simple money box in the shape of a small pig
that he cast in brass as a present for my mother,
then a child, nearly ninety years ago.
I played with that pig when I was just a kid,
learning how to take it apart
so as to release my savings,
which later I would restore
to its little fat belly, once I had screwed it back together.
The pig was left to me by my mother when she died
my children have all played with it.
My son Nicholas will own it when I'm gone.
So far as I know, it has no monetary value whatsoever
but for as long as it stays in the family,
being passed from generation to generation, ,
it will carry with it the story of how it came into existence
and with that a memory of my granddad.
Strange, isn't it, that a man of intelligence,
imagination, inventiveness and considerable achievement
is remembered for a toy he once made
and, for all I know, forgot about over time?
I wonder what, of all the things he did,
he felt was the most important.
I bet it wasn't the brass money box he made for his youngest daughter.
When I think about this kind of thing,
I'm reminded that, like everyone else, I aspire
to live on in the minds of others
once I am finally dead and gone;
Seeking to ensure that my little world remembers
that I once existed.
The only trouble is
that it's well nigh impossible to be certain
of whether we will prove to be memorable at all
because of what we did or whom we were
and, should it transpire that we are worth a second thought,
exactly what it is that we're likely to be remembered for.
Of course I like to think that a decent performance I once gave
or a production of mine I quite liked will do the trick.
But the story of the little brass pig makes you realize
that one doesn't necessarily have much of a say in such outcomes.
So I work diligently at leaving behind me
things likely to kick-start memory
or trigger curiosity in the mind of a future someone.
Maybe this poor verse will suffice.
Because I'd prefer to be remembered as a crook poet
than just slip out of sight without anyone noticing.