After a wrist cramping hour of stop and go rush hour traffic on my way out of El Paso, I am greeted by the clean, rain fresh air of New Mexico. The Interstate through New Mexico is lightly traveled and dotted with the familiar green and white vehicles of the U.S. Border Patrol.
Into the southern tip of Arizona I decide to visit the small mining town of Wilcox where my grandmother made her home for 93 years until her passing two years ago. As I pulled into town all the homogenized landmarks are present, Shell, Best Western, 7-11.
I haven't been here for years and have trouble finding my grandmothers historical landmark house which was either renovated, moved or both.
I spot a small uninhabited "railroad park" which I remember from my last visit.
A lonely shopkeeper peers from his window as I sit in the park and reflect on the last time I saw my grandmother and I regret not calling more, not writing more. I imagine what my father's life as a boy must have been like in this small western town.
Back on my bike I watch with a heavy heart as Wilcox disappears in my motorcycle's rear view mirror and continue on toward Phoenix.
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