A Tribute in Tucson

In Loving Memory Of Nick Lipari, 29

March 10, 2024. First time, just driving past, this roadside memorial was such a complete thought I immediately wanted to stop and learn more, but traffic was heavy and the light was all wrong. I’ll come back, I promised, then tried to time my next drive out to hike among the saguaros and canyons with more amenable illumination.

I ended up needing to go back a couple of times before the light finally seemed right. Or right enough. I really didn’t mind. I was on holiday and it was on the road to someplace absolutely magical with birds. So many desert loving birds. I was happy for the added incentive to visit once again.

My first revisit offered mid-morning light, flat-on and much too harsh. Stark front lighting and hard shadows. Meh. Maybe if I’d gotten there at dawn.

There were so many colorful, translucent things about this memorial that would simply glow in backlight. Probably worth the wait. Wanting to do its creators’ artistry justice. So I didn’t even get out of my rental car that first morning, just drove on toward my hiking destination. Again I promised, “I’ll come back.”

Third time was the charm. I pulled into the empty, adjacent parking lot in late-afternoon light, grabbed my cameras and walked over and began trying to understand the story that had inspired it.

Unlike so many, this tribute site was deeply layered. A metal sculpture and an etched, metal plaque offering a sense of permanence in response to a world that clearly was not. Solid intentionality. Thoughtful rememberances. Careful planning.

This memorial is meant to last. It is no hasty or half-hearted effort.

Then, to soften all that, there were hundreds of colorful silk flowers woven into the chain link fencing which created a dimensional painting, joyful explosions of color, captured light and a sense of overflowing, if more temorporal …abundance.

And finally, those handwritten notes, penned in chalk on the concrete sidewalk, ephemeral, short-lived expressions of eternal connections. There were words from Nick’s widow, his sister and, best I can figure, his sister-in-law, ongoing prayers that will change with the day, the season, the rising and falling weight of grief. They will disappear again and again, erased by wind, by rain and by the footsteps of strangers passing by. Which will mean reasons to visit again, tender acts of caring …again, opportunities to speak to grief once again.

Love from his sister and sister-in-law...

This roadside memorial had a sense of sway. It had caught my eye and put a hook into me while I was driving past in traffic, headed somewhere else. I wanted to be able to read whatever clues they might have included, read the notes, study the symbols, come to some place of shared understanding with those struggling to make sense of their loss.

I know people who will spend hours reading and rereading some fresh, new variation on The Great Gatsby who will never dip a toe into the river of actual loss flowing past and through one of these roadside memorials. But there is magic there for those who will stop, who will quiet themselves enough to listen…

I’ve thought again and again about the young man, Nicholas Vincent Lipari, age 29, who was lost to his loved ones on Monday, February 24, 2020 in a motorcycle-car collision in an intersection in Tucson, Arizona.

Isn’t that a part of it? Isn’t that what one would hope for, on some level when one places a memorial along a public roadway? …that someone will get a glimpse of just how wonderful this person was, how deep your love for them was, how earnestly you are doing your work to honor them and to find a beautiful way through the loss and waves of grief?

I heard you, Rachel. I see something, some glimpse of how beautiful Nick was to your eyes and heart by your thoughtful efforts to make sure he is remembered, that the love that bound you to him is remembered.

In a world that continually feels like an affront to heartfelt efforts, to whispered loyalties, to poetic gestures, I walked back to my rental car feeling I’d just been in the presence of immense goodness curated through tears, through shared loss with each of you who brought your very best to create this loving tribute.

You taught me.

You’ve touched my heart.

Thank you.

And may Nick’s memory be a blessing…

When my mother died in a car wreck that almost took my sister, as well I needed to go and stand at that place where it happened. I needed to see it, walk that stretch of road, again and again, try to understand, get a sense of that place where she took her exit from the world that we continue to wake and sleep in.

I did not build her a memorial at the crash site. We didn't have that sort of relationship anymore. But even moreso, because she was driving drunk and in a jealous rage at the moment of her departure. She did not leave those of us who loved her on good terms.

I crawled in through the broken window at the junkyard, in sweltering heat to sit there inside the crushed car she died in, needing to feel something more, understand better, but in the end, did not ache to leave some mark of loyalty in the world for her. Not there. Not like that.

Perhaps it’s no surprise then how acutely aware of others’ tributes, their very personal and heartfelt exit markers I have been ever since. And so, as the spirit moves me I pull over. I look for a safe place to stop. I stand with the departed and with those left behind trying to make sense of things, bowing at their alters, reading their notes of loss and gratitude, trying to honor their hints and often bumbling efforts to memorialize their loved ones' passages.

From time to time I'll add another of these memorials, here. It won't make a lick of sense to some, but perfect sense to others. I’m ok with that. There are no written rules for this sort of thing as far as I know, and yet, each Roadside Memorial I've encountered, whether alongside some crumbling, two lane road in rural Thailand or a busy freeway in urban Illinois, each always has some elements in common, the most discernible of which is a profound need to express one's sense of grief and loss. After all these years I still find it worth the effort to pull over, get out …then to listen to whatever voices might be carried on the breeze, touch the edge of someone else’s tale of loss, say thank you to a world big enough and imaginative enough to allow this possibility, too.