September 29, 2009

• on the street where you lived

  
  © dawvon

  i parked on a street where a man died this morning.  by evening, there were already twelve candles standing in solemn vigil near the tree where sawdust had been spread to cover the blood and oil.  it was strange to walk by that sacred spot.  instinctively, i held my breath and tried to look without looking. 

  it's always strange to see these vigils.  quiet candles, garish floral arrangements, teddy bears, signed posters.  they turn up in the most unexpected of places.  you're angry that you're late to work again, and then you see a wreath draped across a cross that says, "we love you."  i've never seen a roadside vigil being put up, but its effects are always the same.  a silent slap of reality.  a sacred spot where life became death.

  it's ironic, but part of my commute home everyday involves a car-choked merge on an elevated highway.  cars, trucks, taxis and buses all smash into the same small spaces trying to vie for that small piece of asphalt.  through the corrugated side-grate of the highway, there are little spaces where there the siding meets.  these gaps are only a couple of inches wide, but when you look through, you'll see the most massive cemetery below.  i sometimes wonder at the city planner who thought to place a narrow strip of elevated highway over a massive sea of graves.  the juxtaposition of the crowded living over the crowded dead gets me every time.

  i'm not trying to sound overly morbid.  i get that a lot when i try to talk about death, so these days i stick to lighter topics like the weather and food.  but it's these subtle reminders that inch in and remind me that life and death are not so far apart.

  • 9:01 pm
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