Sandals on the Overpass

What a photo reminded me about love, memory, and truth.

You wake up, open your phone, and there it is—On This Day. A digital memory you didn’t ask for, but somehow needed.

This time, it was a photo from ten years ago. Alison, standing on an overpass above I-581 in Roanoke. She’s wearing a summer red dress, holding a microphone, with traffic stretching out behind her. Polished from the waist up, as always—but take in the whole picture, and you see the sandals on her feet, the black strap on her leg holding the mic cord in place, and the unmistakable intensity of someone doing the job she loved.

Alison Parker reporting above I-581 in Roanoke, 2015. A single frame, still echoing ten years later.

I posted that photo with a lighthearted caption—just a nod to the old joke about anchors wearing shorts behind the desk. No political commentary, no outrage. Just a memory.

And it exploded—like pretty much everything I’ve ever posted about Alison.

Samantha wrote, “I think about her often. ❤️”

Elaine said, “Your dear girl.”

Valorie: “I will never forget her, or that day, or how you have fought to the surface, every day since.”

Kate called her a “Never forgotten angel.”

Others left broken heart emojis, prayers, and gratitude for the reminder.

They weren’t reacting to the cleverness of a turn of phrase. They were responding to something deeper.

Because it’s love. Because it’s her. Because it’s the truth people can feel.

That photo doesn’t need explanation. It cuts through the noise. It doesn’t persuade, it doesn’t argue—it just is. A frozen moment of clarity, full of light and loss and purpose. A young journalist standing on an overpass, grounded and driven, lens aimed at the truth.

I’ve spent nearly a decade trying to make sense of the senseless—fighting for change, speaking out, refusing to go quietly. And people may admire that. They may admire me.

But they love her.

That love is what shows up in the replies. It’s what keeps her memory alive—not just in anniversaries or headlines, but in these moments of shared recognition. A simple photo of Alison doing what she did best becomes something bigger: a connection.

That image isn’t powerful because of what was lost. It’s powerful because of what still lives. Her spark. Her presence. Her integrity. You can still see it.

She stood on that overpass ten years ago, mic in hand, ready to tell the truth. And I like to think, in my own way, I’m still trying to do the same.

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