For six months, I watched a mysterious biker visit my late wife’s grave every Saturday. He arrived on a Harley-Davidson, walked directly to Sarah’s headstone, and sat beside it for almost an hour. Sometimes he lowered his head. Other times, I noticed his shoulders shaking as though he were crying. I couldn’t understand why a complete stranger seemed to be mourning the woman I’d loved for thirty-four years.
My name is David, and since losing Sarah, I’d visited the cemetery every weekend. But unlike this stranger, I rarely found the courage to leave my car. Watching him sit comfortably beside her grave filled me with confusion, jealousy, and eventually anger.
After twenty-six Saturdays, I finally confronted him. He looked up, reached into his leather vest, and slowly removed an old laminated photograph.
It showed four nurses standing together.
And there, smiling in the photograph, was my wife Sarah.
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