Imagination grips me on the highway
in the form of a guardrail
twisted all to hell
just after mile marker sixteen.
Did someone get clipped
and spin out of control?
Maybe they hydroplaned
on the rain-soaked road?

One of those stories was my brother
asleep at the wheel and drifting
until he rolled his car three times
somewhere in northern Kentucky.
He and his friends walked away unscathed
save for knowing the worse that could have been.
I remember the picture of my brother taken later
sitting reflective in the front seat of the wreckage.

I also remember the snowstorm
that beat me to Illinois,
the whole state an icy battle
with roads threatening constant betrayal.
The losers settled into new fights
for warmth, stuck beyond the shoulders
waiting for rescue.
I couldn’t stop rolling.

We pass cars left empty
miles from the next city or haven,
orange stickers promising removal
if no one comes to claim them.
Does anyone ever make it back
or do those vehicles remain vacant
for the rest of their existence,
their owners moving on with life?

But then there’s the occasional cross
where a loved one’s life
did not move on.
I always worry about becoming
my own cross someday.
The guardrail comes back to mind.
Did they recover? Do they still walk?
Is that mile waiting for its own cross?

These stories
are all just blinks on the open road
where trials, life events, and sorrows
once gripped a pocket of people.
Most of us just pass by them
on a measly toll of curiosity.
This mile marker sixteen
was just another mile to me.