My dad once told me a story about an artist who made paintings. He didn’t sell his work, but just kept it all. They were too precious to him. The only exception was the one time he gave a painting to a friend for his birthday. Then one day, the artist’s house caught fire and all of his paintings were destroyed. The only painting that survived is the one he gave his friend.

This story has stuck with me for a long time. Next year, my father will have been gone for 20 years. What do we have from him that has lasted these two decades? The clothes and cars are gone, the house was sold and the insurance has long been spent. We have only a few things that remain. We have old photographs that are imbued with memories of him, and the time spent with us. My brother and I carry his DNA and his curiosity. He shared his mechanical interest with my brother and I retained his love of maps.

The story he told about the artist, I now realize was a fable. It’s not just about the artist and his painting. It’s about all of us and our lives. The only things that survive the fire are things you give away. The most precious is your time and your essence: that essential part of you that sees the world a little bit different than everyone else. That part of your being that lingers in everyone that you loved and that loved you back and your contributions to world.