KOA

At the first traffic light since Muleshoe, a road siphons cars to WalMart, fertilizing the weeds of urban fringe – self-storage units, metal-building Bible churches, seasonal fireworks stands.

Woven into the bottom two squares of a gridded wire fence the cross tilts outward, struggling against its confines. Prevailing winds and airborne dirt have blasted names, dates from the boards.

The vertical piece of the cross is splayed like fingers on an outstretched hand, from a sledgehammer driving the memorial, strike by blow, as if to pommel grief into molecule-sized pieces, on the chance that smaller grief may be easier.

Time, and development, march toward this marker. Soon it will become an entrance to a convenience store and the frayed KOA campground sign in the field behind it will become a slick neon version showing the latest gasoline prices or what soft drinks are on sale.

And the cross will be but a narrow memory.

North Frankford Avenue
Lubbock, Texas