That small white wooden cross stands along the side of the road amongst the rocks in the middle of nowhere, visible to every soul that passes by daily each likely wondering with a touch of sadness—what happened on that fateful night? That cross seems to say so much and yet so little. Who was she? What actually happened? Why? Could it have gone another way?
And at night, with a small light delicately washing over both cross and floral bouquet, a dear one sits and contemplates the past reflecting what was and what could have been. And still another, standing nearby, head bowed perhaps in prayer, gives silent homage to a life that was.
Unable to respond—to relieve us of our curiosity, to put us at peace within, she now rests quietly, away from the noise and the harshness of this material world. We hope also that the stab of pain that surely penetrates the hearts of family and dear friends might slowly drift away.
Frannie, many of us didn’t know you at all and yet your aloneness out there, spoken to us by that little piece of wood—the cross—disturbs us hauntingly. Somehow you now have become our neighbor, our friend.
The Sweetness of a babies hand
The eager hand of a child.
The working hand the loving hand
The mothers and the brides.
The soldiers hand the giving hand
The swiftness of the crooked hand.
The drummers hand the lovers hand
Don’t they speak of life.