Sandragrace Martinez labels each of the crosses at a memorial site on Quintana Road in San Antonio, Tuesday, July 5, 2022, where 53 people died from heat-related illnesses as they were trapped in a tractor-trailer. Martinez, a mental health clinician, has been helping coordinate the ever-growing memorial site as more of the 53 victims are being identified.

Since a tractor-trailer carrying migrants was found on Quintana Road last month, the once desolate road has given way to an ongoing funeral procession and pilgrimage.

Since the day dozens of migrants were found dead inside a tractor-trailer on Quintana Road last month, the once desolate road has given way to an ongoing funeral procession and pilgrimage.

Dedicated to the 53 migrants who died as a result of being transported in a tractor-trailer without ventilation and water, the now-sacred site underwent another transformation within a matter of days.

It has grown from a memorial to the 53 to one for all migrants who’ve died making their journeys to the United States, a tangible representation of all that combined loss.

On ExpressNews.com: Ayala: Human smuggling tragedy calls for compassion toward migrants, not contempt

People from all over the country and Mexico have been drawn here, including a woman whose daughter was among the 53.

Union Pacific land lies on one side of the memorial, where an easement contains at least 54 crosses stuck in concrete by a brigade of mourners who took no credit.

Fifty-three crosses, some painted pink, others black, have joined a larger one that depicts Jesus Christ.

They make up “Los 53 Migrantes Memorial,” as its Facebook page is named. The hashtags it uses say so much, #WallOfCrosses, #ParedDeCruzes, #AmnestyNow.

Mourners have gathered here to recite rosaries in the Catholic tradition and evangelical prayers from a bullhorn. Native Americans have offered blessings in the form of sage smudging. Mariachi players and folklorico dancers have made their way here, too.

The memorial has grown organically, without a plan or design.

Sandragrace Martinez showed up June 29 after all the emergency vehicles were cleared. She brought a case of bottled water. It grew from there.

An artist painting a mural at the site offered shade under his tent. On her second day, another tent appeared. She offers free counseling and free hugs there.

Martinez, 48, is a licensed professional counselor who has become the de facto caretaker of the memorial, and she runs it with a corps of volunteers.

During the Democratic primary, Martinez ran unsuccessfully for state land commissioner, but that’s a remote memory now.

Martinez is now focused on how to make this memorial a permanent one, even after her folding table, chairs and igloo were stolen.

Martinez has had company. Her friend Grace Hernandez, 69, who represents a group called Mujeres Hispanas por Mejor Justicia, has stopped by.

“It has been nonstop,” Martinez says of the steady flow of traffic that begins late weekday afternoons and runs into all-day weekends.

The pilgrimages aren’t organized, but Martinez says people have come from as far away as Oregon, North Carolina and Florida and as far south as the Mexican states of Zacatecas and Colima.

On ExpressNews.com: Ayala: Human smuggling tragedy calls for compassion toward migrants, not contempt

For some migrants and their families, especially for the undocumented who can’t go home for funerals, the memorial de los 53 has become the place at which to mourn, say goodbye, lay flowers and pin a picture.

“Others are erecting walls of steel between two nations,” Martinez said. The Quintana Road memorial has erected “a wall of crosses.”

In June, Martinez was in Buffalo, N.Y., for the 30-day anniversary of a fatal shooting at a Tops grocery store, where 10 people were gunned down.

Martinez then traveled to Washington, D.C., where Uvalde residents testified before a House committee about the May 24 shooting at Robb Elementary School.

She waited in the hallway outside to offer counseling afterward, she said.

Martinez wasn’t assigned to perform any of these tasks, but the bilingual counselor says she has been drawn to them to offer help.

Her nonprofit Mental Wellness Connections Inc., offers free and low-cost mental health services and immigrant resources, she said.

So far, the memorial is a self-funded project. In addition to water, she has set up two portable toilets on site and has put $10,000 of her own money into an account to fund the site, she said.

Ramon Vasquez of the Tap Pilam Coahuiltecan Nation and Gabriel Velasquez of Avenida Guadalupe have offered their help.

Over the weekend, they escorted attendees of the national UnidosUS conference, which convened in San Antonio, to the site. They included Ana Marie Argilagos, president and CEO of Hispanics in Philanthropy, and Marco A. Davis, president and CEO of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute.

The site has triggered emotions wrapped up in other losses and traumas, she said.

The chilled water bottles she hands out for free are symbolic of so much more. “They thirst, not just physically but spiritually,” she said.

On Monday, it was so hot she told volunteers to rest. They’ve decided to keep their vigils to Wednesday afternoons through Sundays.

So far, no one has asked them to leave. A Union Pacific representative asked that a mural be moved slightly, she said, and the rail company will put up temporary fencing to keep people a safe distance from the tracks.

Martinez said she has contacted the offices of District 4 City Councilwoman Adriana Rocha Garcia to discuss making the memorial a permanent one and plans for a ceremony July 27, marking 30 days since the tractor-trailer was discovered.

Most of the people who’ve visited here are humble. They bring their families and flags representing their countries of origin.

Only one moment has given her pause.

A trucker drove by. From where she was sitting, Martinez saw the driver, blonde and blue-eyed, an image of a Confederate flag inside his cab.

Her signs were in full view: “Free Hugs,” Free Mental Health,” “Immigrant Rights Matter.”

Then he showed up in front of her. “I’m not racist,” he said. “I know you saw that flag.”

He wondered if hugs were really free to someone like him.

“He came around (the table), hugged me and balled,” Martinez said. She remembers he said, “This isn’t right. First the kids, and now this.”

It’s one of the thousands of interactions with mourners, all with distinctive stories, that continue to show why the site of such trauma might also be one of healing.

A newspaper journalist for almost 40 years, Elaine Ayala has held a variety of journalism jobs, including news reporter, features editor, blogger and editorial page editor. She covers San Antonio and Bexar County with special focus on communities of color, demographic change, Latino politics, migration, education and arts and culture.