Legacy

It didn’t end the way it did in fairytales. We’re raised to chase a happily ever after, but in war, there is no fairytale ending. Victory is bittersweet, leaving soldiers with mental ailments and death they have to live with until their ends. Defeat usually means you’re one of the deaths plaguing the minds of the living, but really, you’re just a number lost among thousands.

I, like most people, had avoided death for most of my life. Outside of the occasional relative growing old and passing away, there was rarely a scenario where I had to confront those kinds of emotions. To me, death was something dramatized. Hollywood treats death as a catalyst for the hero to progress their story and achieve their fairytale ending. A mentor dies, it’s tragic. A loved one dies, it’s sad. But they all push the hero forward in their journey toward a happy ending. By the time the credits roll, the hero rides off into the sunset and everything is fine, sometimes even forgetting the death of a loved one or mentor even happened.

Death is kind of like that last part. You won’t be remembered except by those closest to you, and eventually their memories of you will fade upon their own death. It’s inevitable. But life isn’t a hero’s journey. There is no planned course of action for us to overcome our inner demons or existential crisis. When you die, all you can think of is how you got to that point or what could you have done differently to avoid it. All you can do is hold onto the last shred of life you have left and think about the ways you could have held onto more, but if you have to think about that, then it’s too late. Some people choose to look for that last shred of life in their children, hoping their own legacy will live on through their offspring.

For those of us without children or without a legacy of any kind, we cease to exist. We’re erased from the annals of history with no surviving memory to identify us. Billions upon billions of people who were once held in high esteem among their small group of peers have traveled this path to nonexistence. We won’t ever know their names nor will we understand who they were or the potential they had. We won’t know the joy they brought to their friends or family, because those friends and family members are now nonexistent as well.

I write knowing the bombs will drop soon. I write to not be among the billions, but to leave something behind. You’ve opened this safe, so that means my legacy survived. Do what you must with it, but remember my name. And know that there is nothing glorious or prevailing about dying in war.

Noah Altman

May 17th, 2030