Memories dot our roadsides,
Highway or rural it matters not.
Monuments hammered with tears serve as reminders,
Whitewashed, makeshift,
Adorned in faded flowers,
Bleached to muted hues by the noonday sun.
At times dressed with images,
Perhaps names or signs–loves of their lives;
Each one a silent storyteller.
Embarrassed, I often pass without offering a sympathetic glance,
Too consumed with my own circumstance to take notice.
This is not out of cruelty,
Nor is it for a lack of compassion,
But instead due to the chaos of everyday life.
Still–upon further reflection, I wonder…
Whose daughter, son, mother, father were they?
What story do they have to tell,
What were their hopes and dreams,
Are those left behind coping?
Questions are these for which I have no answer.
A solitary cross marks a souls final earthly moment,
Pleading to be noticed and remembered.
I hope to take the time, if only a moment
To wish their spirits well
And to pray for closure for those left behind.
~
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~
Dom DiFrancesco 
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