So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
William Shakespeare, sonnet 18
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
My brother says that our brother in-law
is in a better place, but I hold in my tongue
and resist to say out loud what I believe,
that there is no better place, unless you
think that no place is a way better place,
because, as much as I loved him, that’s where
he is. No place. Nothingness. He’s nowhere.
He’s in our minds, that is the whole story,
but that might be a better place than this,
considering the suffering caused by
the cancer, and so, I’ll give my brother
that concession. Our memories hold him.
Then, after all who can remember him
are gone, he’ll live in a photo, this poem.
michael jarmer 
Someone wiser than me has said that our loved ones die three deaths: the physical one, the ceremonial (funeral / memorial) one, and the one when someone utters their name for the last time.
So, in that sense at least, they live on through us. And I like to think that remembering their best qualities nudges us to be at least marginally better humans.
Thanks for that, Erin.
Or Jeff. ;)
Or Jeff!