They are shards of memories, tossed aside in the dirt and cracking with age. The rugged stones look nothing more than upright boulders against a hillside. The grass grows in clumps in front and blocks the truth of their existence.
The names and dates are hidden.
The past visitors have long since forgotten about what lays beneath the ground. Now the gleaming lights of a highway reflect against the stones' surfaces and houses are their next door neighbors. Only the dirt remembers and cherishes its precious cargo that rests in its hands.
These stones, they are supposed to be an eternal memorial to a life well lived and the love that follows them still.
But no one stops. No one walks among the forgotten people.
It is a weed patch. A place to glance at as you drive to work.
The person at the flower stand knows my name.
Each month I buy a dozen roses.
My house is a neighbor to this memorial.
My car is the car that drives by each day.
And each day I see a single red rose lying next to each of the stones.
You are not forgotten.
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