What happens when all of the things that once belonged to you aren't yours anymore?

What happens when you die and you leave behind a wardrobe full of clothes that you'll never wear again, save for a funeral outfit? Well, maybe your family keeps a few shirts and jackets, hoping that your smell will never fade. Your daughter will keep all of your favorite t-shirts, even the ones that are worn out and stained with paint. Your favorite hat, that'll go with you.

But what happens a few years down the line when your kids need to sell the house and move on with their lives? It's sad to say, but they do need to keep on living.

But you knew that, and you were prepared for it.

They'll move into their first and second and maybe even third apartment, and they simply won't have room to store all of your now unused belongings. Some things will be given to family or friends, but it feels wrong, giving away your things.

Because they are still your things.

Your family will save voicemails of you, like the one where you called to say you'll be home for dinner soon, that you're just stuck in traffic; they're hoping that they'll never forget how your voice sounds.

But the message is stored in a cloud in the sky, possibly no different than the one that you're on, so if the message is lost, how could they ever get it back? After all, technology becomes obsolete within a few years' time. How can they know for sure that your voice will be forever preserved in an invisible file?

You knew this was coming. All of it, and you'd had months to prepare for it.

Even before the tumor existed, let alone before the doctors found it, you knew this was coming.

Standing in the driveway, it was Spring. You felt something, clawing and scratching its way into your brain. But you were quiet about it. Instead, "Don't be late tomorrow. You need to take your car to get the oil changed, remember?"

Your daughter nodded, half listening, completely withdrawn from the moment. She'd roll out of bed the next day and make it to the dealership two minutes late, as always. Her head was somewhere else.

But you knew.

What's missing when you die, besides you?

It's texts signed with Love, Dad, and reminders to get your car washed. It's long hugs after you've been away at college for weeks. It's someone who loves you more than the life that they're losing.

What happens when you die?

Are you still you?