I pass them often, these crosses and others, markers of lives lost, lives I didn’t know, can’t remember. There is something very poignant about these crosses, they seem both brave and lonely, they are maintained  by someone, there are flowers, even words added. I think of the people who loved these people who knew them, imagine what these crosses might mean to them, wonder how long they can be maintained.

Death happens everywhere, to everyone, someone wants these deaths to be remembered. When I got out of the car, I meant to take a photo of the barn in the back, I didn’t see the crosses from the road, the grass was too high. Then I saw what the photo really was, a chance for me to pay some attention, for me to see these crosses, for me to say a few words of private prayer for them. There is something cold about driving past these echoes of grief, cars and trucks whizzing past day and night, I never see anyone stop, and I can’t blame them for that, these seem markers from some other life, some other time. I suppose it is easy to feel that way until someone you love is represented in a cross.

Time moves on, the property is for sale, the beautiful old barn is doomed also, a marker in itself, somebody selling raw milk right next to the crosses and the for sale sign. A very American photo, all about the passage of time and life.