On my class night, which is celebrated the night before commencement at my high school, I read Longfellow's "A Psalm of Life". It was my benediction, a painful bow to the hollow year leading up to that moment. The line that keeps floating back to the surface these days is "let the dead past bury its dead".
I think we all hope to be remembered, and remembered fondly, but sometimes...we're forgotten, and deliberately so. People have their reasons; moreover, they have the right to excise from memory that which is unpleasant, painful, or useless to them.
Depending on your point of view, I'm either blessed or cursed with an excellent memory from which I have trouble deleting things, events, and people. Part of it may lie in the fact that I don't make friends easily. Part of it may also be that I'm fairly lonely at the moment, which supplies an inordinate amount of time to dwell on this. My mother is fairly critical of social media, but that vicarious contact is pretty much all I have at present.
Someday when I feel like crawling out of this hole, I might make some vague stab at living again. For now, I really don't feel like trying.