Whisper of Wings – Zoghi
Arizona Homecoming
By Leah Mueller
I drove past your roadside memorial without seeing it.
At first, I thought a county worker had removed the structure. One of their mowers slammed into your statue in 2021, partially uprooting it from the earth.
The statue remained stubbornly upright, clinging to earth through the force of gravity. Our sister created a cement base for it, one year after your fatal accident. She wanted the monument to last longer than you did.
I made a U-turn and circled back. The process felt dangerous, like I might perish at the same spot where you did, 23 years ago. I glanced anxiously in both directions. Not a car in sight.
Finally, I spotted your memorial, hidden behind a mesquite tree. The foliage had grown denser since my last visit. It covered your statue like a shroud.
I parked my rental car at the roadside and activated the flashers. The shoulder was too narrow for the SUV. I would need to abbreviate my grieving.
Tiptoeing through the brush, I approached your monument. A lopsided, winged man, both arms akimbo. Broken mementos knocked asunder by time and vandals. Pottery shards. Straps from your guard uniform. A copper strand with multicolored beads, splayed across the flinty soil. In the distance, penitentiary buildings loomed like malevolent gargoyles. You never made it to work that day.
The other guards loved you for your comedic absurdity. Like Jim Carrey, you could make people laugh just by adjusting your facial expression. A raise of your eyebrow sent them into gales of helpless laughter. Gallows humor. There was nothing funny about a maximum-security prison.
I scooped up the strand, turned it over and over in my hands. An unknown person had constructed it for your memorial. The copper string had long since become dull and rusted. Still, it held twelve semi-precious stones, surrounded by two metal stars. At one end was a tiny plastic rose, half-covered in mud.
Placing your talisman into my pocket, I made my way towards the SUV. The desert sun scorched my eyeballs. I flung open the heavy door and slid into the driver’s seat.
Suddenly, I heard a hiss of tires. A red pickup pulled over, and an elderly man emerged. His wizened face radiated deep concern. He made his way purposefully in my direction, boots crunching in the gravel.
Sighing, I rolled down my window. People always wanted to help, especially when nothing could be done.
“Do you need assistance?”
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
