Given the depth of most essays on this site, I wanted to take a moment for something more personal — a reflection on memory, presence, and the quiet ways shared experience shapes who we are and who we leave behind.

I recently had a conversation with someone who has always had the ability to make me look at life more positively. It wasn’t anything extraordinary—just a good, honest exchange—but it brought back a set of memories I’ve carried for years. Great memories. Fun ones. The kind that last.

This person never tried to be memorable. That was never the point. Much of it was simply my cousin being who he was—driven by curiosity, guided by a quiet thirst for knowledge. When I was a kid, he spoke about things he was interested in with passion, something that naturally grabbed the attention of a child. When I was very young, and he must have been in his mid-teens, he learned a new language despite living among people he couldn’t practice it with. He operated a HAM radio, which, to me at the time, felt like a gateway to other worlds—distant, undiscovered, and mysterious.

In many ways, that HAM radio was the equivalent of the modern internet: a means of speaking to people in other countries, or communicating through another radio operator who could connect you by phone with distant relatives… in a town that had no phone at all. To me, all of this made a lasting impression. We were exposed to very little of the modern world at that time. I grew up in a third-world country, in a small town that, as I remember it, must have been twenty or thirty years behind more developed countries. That contrast alone made everything he did feel larger, almost magical.

Other memories were formed years later, when we met again during a summer vacation back to my hometown. I was a teenager by then, a few years after leaving to live in the United States. That trip created even more lasting memories. There was the first girl—someone he was responsible for me meeting—the moment when boyhood quietly gave way to something else. There was the advice he offered about women and relationships. The introduction to Bob Marley, whom I had never heard before. His movie-star-looking Ray-Bans that he always carried with him—the coolest sunglasses I had ever seen. A double date we once went on, and something he did that I still laugh about to this day but have never shared with him.

There were many trips to the beach with his friends, who became the group I spent that summer having fun with. People and experiences I still remember even though I have not seen them in over 30 years.Trips to the river, games played, group cookouts. And many other moments that are now cherished memories.

None of these moments announced themselves as important. And yet, they became permanent.

Maybe it was the freedom—being away from the concrete jungle and the confinement of an apartment in New York City, far from nature and the things I grew up with as a child. But I think my connection with my cousin, and his energy, had just as much to do with it.

During our recent conversation, we reminisced about some of those memories—memories from over thirty years ago. We also spoke about the power of memory itself—something I understood long ago, but a concept that continues to deepen over time. It’s a realization that often sharpens after loss, when you understand that people don’t entirely disappear. They persist through memory. Through the good, the bad, and the joyful moments. Especially the joyful ones.

Memory does not only preserve individuals; it preserves patterns. The deeper continuity of who we are across generations is explored in The Illusion of Originality and the Continuity of Human Nature.

What we tend to forget is how to be memorable to others. We overlook the importance of creating shared experiences that endure. And yet, there is something almost too simple to acknowledge: creating lasting memories is enjoyable. It’s fun. It doesn’t require grand plans or deliberate legacy-building. It requires shared effort, cooperation, presence—and moments that invite spontaneous, unexpected laughter.

Modern life, however, pulls us in the opposite direction. We become absorbed by problems, negativity, and a constant awareness of what’s wrong. We tell ourselves there will be time later—for enjoyment, for connection, for lightness. But later keeps moving.

The most meaningful memories are not created because we set out to “make memories.” They emerge naturally when people genuinely enjoy a shared experience. And those moments, once formed, continue to give long after the moment itself has passed—bringing smiles, perspective, and even comfort years later.

I don’t know if this is how it is for others, because I can only know myself, but I have to imagine it is. Two of the closest relatives I’ve lost—people I loved deeply—still move me emotionally. And I’m not only talking about the pain of loss, but the impact their memories have on me.

My brother still makes me laugh through memories of shared experiences—things he said that were spontaneously funny. I remember the hugs from my grandmother, experiences I recall in detail and return to when I need to feel unconditional love. I remember how the skin of her hands felt, the smell of her hair, the genuine kisses on my cheek, how tightly she would hug me—and most importantly, that heart-melting smile that communicated infinite love. That is just one example among many. I still smile at memories of her speaking her mind, displaying that strong unbending will, setting people straight, and the serious, menacing look on her face—she suffered no fools.

I remember the crazy things me and my brother would get into, and also him farting in the room we shared after he ate cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs because he was trying to bulk up and build muscle. Arguments over the remote control, walking around with it in our pocket to claim ownership of the TV—arguments I now laugh at. The daring and reckless things we did as kids that would have surely earned us a beating, but are now some of my favorite memories. I remember all the ways he showed me love—not always through words, but through deeds. The many hugs and even kisses on the cheek he would give me when he was drunk—and the I love yous.

There is a memory that still makes all my kids break into uncontrollable laughter whenever it’s brought up—the exploding eggs memory. I had boiled eggs for my daughter, who didn’t come down to eat them until they were cold. So of course, I put them in the microwave for about thirty seconds. I cut one in half, not knowing an egg could hold air that would heat up, expand, and explode the way that one did. It was completely unexpected, and I ended up covered in egg yolk. Kids being kids—it was hilarious, the funnies thing to witness for them. They weren’t even teenagers then, but now in their twenties they still laugh out loud every time we bring it up. Cherished memories of something that happened completely spontaneously.

They seem to have many more memories of making fun of me and their mom—things we said or did, or the way we said or did them—that they now share among themselves and still laugh about. And honestly, I’m happy they do.

I have a tough exterior, but these are the memories that soften it.

I’ve spent much of my life in a state of postponement—building, preparing, waiting for the right conditions before allowing myself enjoyment. Telling myself that only after certain goals are reached. After stability is secured. After the future is handled. Over time, that mindset becomes habitual. Spontaneity fades. The small, unplanned moments that keep life human quietly disappear.

Perhaps that is the reminder worth paying attention to.

Life is not remembered by what we accumulated or postponed, but by the intangible things we shared. By the moments that outlive us—not in monuments or achievements, but in the memories we leave behind in others.

Those memories are not created through great effort, but through presence, openness, and the willingness to enjoy life while it’s happening. Make sure that when you leave this earth, you leave behind the lasting gift of joyful memories—that you can still make others laugh, cry, and feel something real. In my view, that is one of the greatest measures of human connection, and one of the greatest gifts we can give.

Create those gifts for your children, if you have them. For your siblings. For close friends, and for anyone you care about. This is how you continue to impact the lives of others even after you are no longer here physically.

Give the gift that keeps on giving: beautiful memories.