By the Roadside

She slipped the car into park,
sat quietly collecting her thoughts, and
waited for the dread to pass.
She hated this spot.
Finally, she opened the door
and stepped onto the shoulder.
Very few cars passed by;
it was a quiet country road.
Her footsteps sounded gritty in the loose gravel.
The sun skirted between clouds,
its warmth punctuated with chill.
She never felt warm anymore.
Unseen birds scolded her for interrupting
their play as they took refuge in the trees.
She took no notice.
She stared at the white cross…
The white cross with her son’s name on it…
The white cross marking the spot
where he had died a year ago.
A sob escaped her and her eyes blurred.
Still, she stepped closer.
Faded photos, faded letters, faded flowers
littered the ground surrounding the cross.
His friends had built this place of memories.
She had never stopped…she couldn’t bear it.
Her mind noticed the more recent letters,
the little trinkets of love hanging on the cross,
and the photographs not yet burned by the sun.
They still came; they still kept his memory.
His friends gathered here where his last breath
still hung in the air.
Here in the company of his pals and
the girls he had kissed he lived on.
An understanding filled the hollows of her heart.
This was a place to celebrate life,
not a place to mourn death.
Here her son continued on.
That cold granite memorial elsewhere
marked only his death; not his life.
The sun burst from behind a cloud.
She felt its warmth and smiled.
This was where her son could be found.
Here among his friends.
She would return…time and time again.
To share in his laughter.