I have always been sad that when I die, all my happy memories will disappear, my point of view, my ideas, everything I've ever noticed or thought about, the way I feel about people. I heard this poem a couple of years ago on Writer's Almanac, and it rang so true:

Poem: "It Is Not the Fact That I Will Die That I Mind" by Jim Moore from Lightning at Dinner.

It Is Not the Fact That I Will Die That I Mind

but that no one will love as I did
the oak tree out my boyhood window,
the mother who set herself
so stubbornly against life,
the sister with her serious frown
and her wish for someone at her side,
the father with his dreamy gaze
and his left hand idly buried
in the fur of his dog.
And the dog herself,
that mournful look and huge appetite,
her need for absolute stillness
in the presence of a bird.
I know how each of them looks
when asleep. And I know how it feels
to fall asleep among them.
No one knows that but me,
No one knows how to love the way I do.