Melted snow and dusty streets.

You and I had to stop.

We’re drawn to places

of power, like roadside

attractions. No matter how

cheap or quaint they seem,

they’re free of cliches.

Here it was, a shrine to

Route 66--even if it was

just a ***** painted banner

on a faded tan brick

gas station wall:

“LAST TOWN BYPASSED

BY I-40 ROUTE 66

WILLIAMS, ARIZONA

OCTOBER 13, 1984.”

You parked the rented car

on broken pavement.

You had to stop and take a

picture under the sign and

between the parked Sequoia

and mud-covered pickups.

You don’t know to

pray, but you know how

to pay attention,

how to halt and idle

in the exhaust of diesel fuel.

Really, what else should you

have done? Doesn’t everything

disappear too soon? What door

will you open now that your

sacred window is closing?

When I see
a forget-me-not
it makes me think

𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓷 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓹
𝓑𝓮𝔂𝓸𝓷𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓴𝔂 𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼
𝓐 𝓱𝓪𝔃𝓮 𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓰𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓼𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽
𝓐 𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓬𝓪𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓼𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽
𝓑𝓵𝓸𝓸𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓭 𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓮𝓼,  𝓯𝓾𝓵𝓵 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓮
𝓢𝓮𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓽𝔃 𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓮
𝓐 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮, 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘
𝓘𝓷 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮
𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝔀𝓮 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓭