Car Crash

There are two memorials in Winnipeg that I drive past regularly -- a cross with flowers by a set of train tracks; you can see the flowers dead above the snow in Winter. The other is a tree where the bark has been shaved off for people to write their names and notes. I know the stories behind these shrines, but there are many similar displays that I see on highways across the country that have no meaning for me but to alert me of the tragedy that now owns that stretch of road. Are the memorials erected for the deceased or for the mourners? Likely both. But what about those that wander by, unconnected, yet curious, even bothered, by the roadside shrine? Driving always bears the possibility of death, and these markings only reinforce such thoughts. A stare into the prairies is interrupted by a highway crucifix. Other people's tragedies are sad distractions on the way to where we're going. Are these spots the places where lives were taken, or the final place where life was lived? Perhaps the flowers, candles, and crosses provide a seal to this space where grief ripped through. I don't want to understand the tradition. Still, the memorials are forever seen by us all, and we always know what they mean. The vagueness of the symbols to a stranger's eyes ignites the worst skills of the imagination.