I kneel on the hard, cold ground. The asphalt is no different here than it is on the hundreds of kilometers stretching to the north and to the south. There is nothing even to suggest that someone measures from here the north and the south.

For those who pass by, this is the stretch of highway down which to let the driver drive alone, the part of the road past which to sleep and miss nothing.

My heart cries out in heartfelt song, and I wonder - did the birds sing that day? The wind nudges autumn leaves onto the black pavement. Do they sense there is something here that must be buried, hidden?

Suddenly, I know they're right. This is a special spot, a precious spot. I hate it.

My son died here.
Will I forget?
Will I forgive?

- Raquel Michaelis, Nanaimo, B.C.