The Box on the Expressway

In haste I sped away from my day and toward the evening

With hands gripping the steering wheel in a way that seemed more like

Clinging than driving.

As I approached the big cut in the mountain through which the expressway runs, cold sun slanted into the red crevices

That upon closer — slower — inspection would reveal the impressions of

Creatures that had lived a billion years ago.

And, swerving suddenly, my spinning wheels turned to avoid the cars stopping ahead.

Automobiles slowing and shifting in an uncertain pace,

Avoiding the large box in the middle of the asphalt.

It was broken into green plastic shards strewn across the only path we had to follow,

Its contents billowing out — seemingly confetti — small rectangular pieces of white flying.

As I approached and slowed and wondered, I realized they were photographs.

Hundreds and hundreds of memories, swirling about in the eddies of

Wind left behind the passing cars. Some skittered across the ground and stopped while others vaulted high and swooped.

Memories shattered and blown to chaos.

The little rectangular papers of images spread across the road —

Some face-up, some face-down —

Some revealing glimpses of faces in another person’s life — but perhaps my own.

Sadly, I considered the loss of these memories. I wondered

How much could any person salvage? But, I passed on and forgot

The pieces of paper clinging against the sides of the red rock.