The Day After Forever

A hundred years from now,

Today will mean nothing to most.

No celebration, no grief.

Just a date lost in the pages of time.

Someone might notice the calendar—

An old one, yellowed at the edges,

Hanging quietly on a wall I once called mine.

And they may pause for a breath,

Tracing a finger over the faded ink.

“Something must have happened on this day,” they might whisper.

But they won’t know what.

Maybe they’ll step into a room,

One that once held my laughter, my thoughts, my late-night prayers.

They’ll feel a stillness.

A kind of echo in the walls.

And maybe they’ll wonder—

“Who lived here? What was their story?”

My home, the one I painted with dreams—

Could belong to someone else now.

Filled with strange voices, different footsteps.

Or perhaps it's crumbling,

Silent under layers of dust,

Blamed for shadows it cannot explain.

My beloved car might sit in someone’s driveway,

Its story forgotten.

My clothes, once chosen with care,

May have turned to rags,

Or disappeared into the unseen corners of the world.

And me?

I’ll be gone.

No presence, no voice, no shadow.

Only a name on a stone,

And maybe—not even that.

The people I cherish today,

Those I bend for, bleed for, love deeply—

May forget me completely.

And yet…

Haven’t I done the same?

I struggle to remember my grandfather’s father.

My great-grandmother's voice is a mystery.

And they—

They too once loved, laughed, and dreamed,

Believing their lives would leave a mark.

We all vanish.

That is the law of this world.

The wars we watch unfold today—

They echo the cries of yesterday’s battles.

And the ones yet to come will mimic them still.

History spins on its wheel,

But we fall off, one by one.

So why this urgency to impress?

Why the obsession with legacy,

When even the hearts we touch today

May one day forget our touch?

Then I think—

Perhaps the purpose is not to be remembered by the world,

But to be remembered by the One who made it.

Because every prayer whispered alone,

Every tear shed in secret,

Every act of kindness done without witness—

Is recorded.

Not here.

But in a place untouched by dust,

Where names are not erased,

And love does not fade.

When my mother once said,

“My son is ten now,”

Neighbors smiled, surprised—

“He was just a baby yesterday!”

And I smiled proudly, thinking I had grown.

But now, with time rushing by like wind,

I ask myself—

Have I truly grown?

Not in age, but in soul?

To grow is not to build taller walls,

But to see how small we truly are.

To understand that even a single sincere moment

Can outlive a hundred forgotten birthdays.

The Day After Forever

One day, the earth will turn without us.

Our names will fade,

Our footsteps erased by wind and weather.

But if we plant our actions in the soil of the Hereafter,

They will bloom—

Not here,

But beyond time.

So let us begin today—

Not to be known,

But to be remembered

By the One who never forgets.

Because in the end,

Time will take everything…

Except what we gave to eternity.