Forgotten

I travel the back roads of South Carolina almost daily. The growing number of roadside shrines is remarkable. Some stretches of highway are more lined than others. I find myself thinking about what makes one mile more treacherous than another, the lone crosses or wreathes of artificial flowers oftentimes frequent enough that on passing one another comes into view.

Today in the late morning I was making my way home from a meeting, barely noticing the shrine pictured here as I passed it by, two colorful wreathes in the distance drawing me along the two lane road. But, this one, a gray blur in the corner of my left eye, and a single word interrupted my forward movement. What? The word my mind flashed into consciousness was almost audible. What? "Forgotten."

At a crossroads -- still not having reached the double wreaths, I turned the car around and headed back. Beyond the shrine and safely off the highway in a business' parking lot, I pulled the camera from its bag and hiked back.

Shortly after 9-ll and as our country began sending troops to Afghanistan, posting yellow bows in public places to indicate support of our military personnel was an intense, deliberate activity. Parishioners asked me if I thought it would be alright to place yellow bows on the doors of the church. I was agreeable, my only stipulation being that the bows be removed or replaced when they became faded or ragged. I didn't want our initial fervor, literally, to fade into the background.

Is that what turned me around today? Faded fervor?

I think I understand the loved ones of those who die on the highway. They want to mark the spot. They want the world to see the spot. They want to declare that they will never forget. The word I heard today was forgotten, the very last thing intended when that short pole was dressed with a grey shirt and hat, when the flowers were chosen and eased into place. The tears were undoubtedly free-flowing and hot: we'll never forget you. But, that shrine, now drooping, faded and overgrown, seems to declare otherwise.

Forgotten could the the wrong word, of course. That's my word. What I hope is that a grieving family has done nothing of the sort. I hope they've moved on and that the memory of the one they've loved and lost is still vibrant and sweet and the cause for an occasional shower of tears. But, grief needs to fade. Maybe they don't need that shrine anymore.

I wish for that family, whoever they are, a time when they can disassemble this collection of artifacts with as much heart as when they set them in place. That, too, would be a declaration.