Every Saturday at 2:00 PM, a motorcyclist would enter the cemetery and head straight for my wife’s grave. For six months, I watched him from my car. At the same time. With the same ritual.
He never brought flowers. He never said a word. He sat cross-legged next to Sarah’s gravestone, his head bowed, his hands gently resting on the grass. For an hour. Then he would press his palm against the stone and walk away.
