Please Be Kind, Rewind
A love letter to four wildly different 80s movies—and what they still teach me about wonder, responsibility, growing up, and sharing joy with my kids.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Flowers Never Stop Coming
Within half a mile of our house, two people have been killed by cars.. Not in some downtown gridlocked city. Right here, in a busy Northern Virginia suburb. A place with shopping plazas, school zones, and soccer practices. The kind of place where you’re supposed to feel safe raising children.
And yet—here we are. Two makeshift memorials. Two lives lost. Two families changed forever.
The one near the Nokes Plaza guardrail is newer. The flowers still look fresh. I know that one was for a 13-year-old girl. It happened just a few weeks ago, right before the end of the school year.
That fact breaks something open in me every time I drive past. Thirteen. That’s middle school. That’s homework and dance playlists and inside jokes with best friends. And now her parents have to go on without her.
No parent should ever have to bury their child.
The other memorial, outside T.J.Maxx, has been there for at least eight years. Every single week—without fail—there’s a new bouquet hanging from that pole. Someone keeps showing up. Someone keeps remembering.
It’s unsettling, seeing them. A reminder that everything can change in an instant. A missed stop, a moment of distraction, and suddenly there's a wreath where there used to be a person.
The only thing that’s changed at that intersection all these years later is a new stop sign with flashing lights that says “Watch for Pedestrians.”
I wonder when people drive by that sign—do they actually see it?
Do they wonder, Why is there a sign with flashing lights here?
Does it change anything?
Or is it just another sign to ignore?
I think about that a lot when I’m driving around here. Especially now that my kids are getting older. One day they’ll be behind the wheel, too. And it’s not just them I worry about—it’s everyone else out there. The people who don’t slow down. Who fly through intersections. Who think a quick glance at a phone is no big deal.
It’s maddening to think about the carelessness. The nonchalance.
How casually some people gamble with other people’s lives.
But then I come back to that wreath.
Eight years. Week after week. Someone shows up with fresh flowers. I don’t know who they are, but I think about them. About the love it takes to keep doing that. To keep showing up, quietly, without an audience.
Just to say: I still remember. You’re still here.
It’s heartbreaking. But it’s also kind of beautiful.
For the people who bring those flowers, it’s become a quiet part of life. A weekly act of remembrance no one sees—unless they choose to look.
I guess my hope is that more of us start looking.
Not just at the road, but at the lives around us.
“Know what’s enough. Build what matters.”
Related Posts
Third Grade, Forever
On the last day of third grade, my daughter came home heartbroken — and reminded me just how deep a child’s heart can feel. A small story of grief, comfort, and boba tea.
Oh… This Is Why I Started Blogging
A reflection on how a simple Dad’s Advice slide deck became the seed of this blog — a place to store wisdom, life lessons, and love for my kids to return to someday.
Made with Bullet