Your great-grandkids won’t know your face, but they might still hum a song you taught somebody.

What survives you travels without your name attached to it. A song, a phrase, a way of cooking something, a rule about how people get treated, all of it moves hand to hand through people who have no idea where it started. The face and the details fall off early. The habit keeps going, carried by somebody who simply thinks that is how it is done.

Teach one person something small and repeatable this month. A card game, a recipe, how to fix a bike chain, the good version of a joke. Those are the things still moving after everything else about you is gone.