It was a dreary as I headed up Route 28 on my way to therapy. I listened to my iPod and tossed about thoughts which were about as foggy as the road. I thought that my week was rather insignificant, and that I really had nothing much to talk about.
WRONG. WHAMMY UPSIDE THE HEAD.
I only had to say one sentence and that started the entire session. WOW. (kudos to my brilliant Buddhist Jungian therapist!)
But on the way up there, I was sobered by the shrine of flowers on the side of the road. It was to commemorate the death of a man who had been hit on a bike, a man that I had known for 30 years.
In the 80's I would see him riding his bike as a kid, a few years younger than myself. He seemed to be homeless, and it was deeply touching that he reminded me of my brother. I talked to him a few times, as I think he camped out in the bushes not far from my house. He was a simple man, but a kind enough man.
He got married, had a kid, but still rode his bike all around the city and its outskirts.
Then one day he was hit, killed, and left for dead. Hit by a driver whom I heard was on drugs, and someone I knew from another lifetime.
I have seen many shrines left for loved ones. I have known many of the people whom have died. A state trooper whose son was on my son's soccer team. The father of a young girl's baby. The grandson of a co-worker. A young mother of two. My students.
These roadside shrines serve us as reminders of how all too short life can be, how one second can change an entire course of events and people's lives.
Most of all, I take a moment and say a prayer for the departed.
So to that man younger-than-myself-whom-I-don't-know-your-name, may you find peace. And may your family find peace.