But this man sitting at her grave every Saturday made me realize something terrifying:
There might have been an entire part of Emily’s life that I knew absolutely nothing about.
Emily had been a pediatric nurse.
She volunteered at church events.
She remembered everyone’s birthday.
She drove a silver minivan.
She packed snacks for every school event because she believed children were always hungry at the worst possible time.
Her idea of rebellion was ordering dessert before dinner.
She wasn’t the kind of person you’d expect to have a secret connection to a Harley-riding stranger.
Yet there he was.
Every Saturday.
Sometimes I could see his shoulders shaking as he cried.
Sometimes he would sit completely still, staring at her name.
And sometimes, just before leaving, he would place one rough hand against Emily’s headstone.
Hewould leave it there for several seconds.
Almost as if he were saying goodbye all over again.
