Heading northwest along the winds and twists of Santiago Canyon Road, I was less than a quarter mile from the trailhead when I noticed a man on the opposite side of the street, wielding a hoe and clearing an area around what looked like a wooden cross. I saw tools, supplies, and flowers.
I stopped pedaling and wondered whether to intrude.
Stretching my neck each way to check the bends in the road, I crossed the street.
“Excuse me, can I ask you a question?” I waited for a nod, then tiptoed into my words, “Are you setting up a memorial for someone you loved and lost?”
A warm smile, then another nod. “Yes, my brother Mike.” He looked relieved, even happy, that I’d asked, as though he were welcoming the chance, almost chomping at the bit to share how much he loved his brother.
I took my sunglasses off. I said how sorry I was, and I could hear my voice break. I worried that my hurt wasn’t matching his happy.
He went on to tell me how long it had been and what had happened in the accident. Mike was doing what he loved, riding his Harley, when a truck struck him. He died on the spot, a few feet away, which he pointed out.
I invited him to tell me more about his brother, how he lived.
He beamed, talking about how loving a man he was and how good he was.
I told him about Joey.
He reached out his hand to mine, and I took it.
Somewhere in there, I told him my name, and he told me his.
My eyes kept filling, but I managed to smile. I hoped William knew my tears and smiles were not just for my own son but for his brother as well.
We agreed that Mike and Joey were in “a better place.” This time, though, the phrase didn’t feel terrible and trite; it felt true.
I think William would be okay with me posting this because he said he keeps the roadside tribute up so Mike is not forgotten. I nodded and said that’s exactly why I write about Joey.
We both honor them and carry them forward by saying their names.
I told him that, while some may find it morbid, I visit Joey’s intersection often because it’s the last place he stood the day he went to heaven (I didn’t mention that the last time I’d visited the intersection, the construction on the signal and crosswalk had been completed, or how it felt to see it ex post facto).
As we said our goodbyes, Mike said more than once to be careful out there, and I said more than once to be careful out there.
He reached out his hand to mine, and I took it. Again.
I headed the rest of the way to the nearby trailhead on the shoulder of the wrong side of the road. I was so glad for the moments I’d spent on the “right” side with William.
I climbed the steep grade to the trail, opened my music app, and blasted Led Zeppelin, as I do to scare off mountain lions—so I can be careful out there.
Whoop-dee-dos, now done. I was down the hill and back in civilization. I switched back to “God on Mute,” the audiobook by Pete Greig, as I glided along the smoothly paved bike path. I picked up the audio where I’d left off. Even though I’d been listening to the book on a loop, it felt like the first time I’d heard Pete’s warm British voice saying these words…
“An eighteen-year-old named Karl was recently killed in a car crash at the end of our road. His friends had evidently gathered by the lamppost where he died, because the next morning there were flowers and empty beer cans (one left unopened, with a note explaining that it was a gift for Karl). Another friend had written a poem:
A thousand words can’t bring you back,
We know because we’ve tried,
Neither will a thousand tears,
We know because we’ve tried.
You left behind broken hearts
And happy memories too,
But we never wanted memories,
We only wanted you.
RIP, mate.”
Stretch out your hand.
Be full of care out there.