It's two lane road in the American West somewhere. Desert but not the picturesque kind. Scrubby, the occasional town, with trucks in yards with parts spilling out mid-surgery.

There are two cars parked on opposite sides of the road. Unusual; one car pulled off is likely an important phone call. A matched set is something else.

We are passing at sixty-five miles an hour so I only catch a glimpse. A woman in cuffed jean shorts and thick black sandals is high-stepping through unkempt brush. It's morning and I can imagine her grimace at the scratches from the thorny shrubs. Everything in the desert has teeth.

In her hands she carries a wreath of silk flowers. The kind I scoff at in craft stores, the kind that reminds you of rosewater and stale cigarettes and age. I've always thought of these and their attendant decorations at kitschy. Why would anyone want that over the real thing?

Then, as with so many instances of harsh judgment, I’m proven wrong. Here was a circumstance where they fit.

Her destination is a roadside memorial. An ideal place for slowly fading colors and petals that don't droop. I try and make out a name or glimpse a picture but we’re going too fast.

I've always wondered about these monuments. One of the biggest questions is about their attendants. We've all seen one where the flowers are windblown or in disarray and it's clear the caregiver isn't coming anymore. This a rare glimpse into one that is: on a Wednesday morning, fresh wreath in hand, inappropriate footwear, and the need to remember this lost soul.

My curiosity extends into morbid territory also since my next thought was about the details of the accident. Like a standard variety rubbernecker, I wanted to know everything. The age of those involved. How many. How long ago. Whether anyone was drinking. How fast it happened. If they had fought just beforehand. All of these things to assess and calculate and measure how sad I should feel. Or to justify the sorrow that had already arisen. As if any equation could be made about such things.

It's standard variety human condition to want to be remembered. To be cared for even when our bodies are gone. Here was proof this was true for one person. Maybe it would be true for me too. Hopefully not by the side of the road but in truth I didn't have much say in the matter. It was touching, a bit repulsive, a little scary, and strangely satisfying to be a witness this moment of care. For less than a minute on a four hour drive in a thirteen hour day of wakefulness, I got to see an act that was only about giving.

This story based on an experience near Death Valley, California.