Notes from the Road — A Beginning
I started Marked by Memory in October 2025 with no idea it would grow into what it is today—or how deeply a stranger’s message could stop my whole day.
I’ve learned to look closer at what the camera catches. Often, there are orbs of light that appear in the frame, seen by me and by others who look at these images later. Other times, the “presence” isn’t something I capture in a photo at all. It’s a sudden shift in the wind just as the sky turns a brilliant blue, or a butterfly that lands nearby while I’m standing there. Even spiders.
I don’t claim to have the words for what these things are, and they don’t happen every time. I mention them with the deepest respect for you, the families, because I know this is where your world changed. I use these moments as a guide—a soft permission to be present at the roadside memorial you put so much love in.
I’m Dee, by the way. I spend my days documenting every roadside tribute you’ve built to keep a memory alive. I laugh a lot, but never at the grief—only around it. Happiness is a choice I work hard at, and I find joy in the most unlikely places: a solitary drive or a Descanso in New Mexico that you’ve tended with care for years. Even when the desert sun bleaches the flowers white, the love is still right there.
My tears are nothing compared to the journey you have walked, but these small moments of presence make me feel less alone in the work of remembering. I look forward to the miles ahead and the stories yet to be told.
The weather is harsh, but the love that put those markers there is stronger.
– Dee
The Message Behind the Cross: Vicente R. Fernandez
May 1st, 2026
I found the Descanso for Vicente R. Fernandez (1975–2009) in New Mexico on a day so cold the tributes were frozen into the earth.
I began the work—carefully dusting off what I could. I had to leave some items alone; they were held so fast by the ice that I didn’t want to risk breaking anything. I managed to clear the frost from a gnome and a small Oscar the Grouch. To me, Oscar was always the best character—people saw the “grouch,” but deep down he had a heart of gold and always pulled exactly what you needed out of that trash can. I think Vicente might have been the same way.
While I worked, I heard a sound. It wasn’t loud ~ a sound.
At first, I tried to ignore it. I focused on the angel and my camera, but this wasn’t a sound you could just brush off. It wasn’t a tapping or a breeze—it was a force. It was like a sudden gust, a phantom train, a vibration so profound and powerful that it felt like it was moving through me.
The more I tried to ignore it, the louder it became, until it was a reliable source of energy that would not let go. It was a presence you could count on to stay there until it was acknowledged.
That sound was an action more powerful than any words. It was demanding my attention, physically pulling me around to the other side of the memorial. I finally stopped what I was doing and walked to the back of the cross.
There it was. Something I was never supposed to miss.
Carved deep into the wood—hidden from the road—was a final message: “We love you – Nicholas, Wesley, Katherine, and Daniel.”
I stood there and cried. If I hadn’t followed that force—if I had just stayed on the “front” of the story—I would have missed the very thing that “presence” wanted me to see. It was a reminder that even when a marker is frozen to the ground, the love behind it is still trying to speak. And that day, it made sure I was listening.
May 4, 1977 — October 26, 2024.