Every Saturday at exactly 2 p.m., the same man rode his Harley-Davidson into the cemetery.
At first, I barely noticed him.
The cemetery was quiet on Saturday afternoons, and visitors came and went all the time. Some brought flowers. Others stayed for a few minutes before leaving. A few people sat beside a grave for an hour or more, lost in memories that belonged only to them.
But this man was different.
He always arrived at the same time.
He always parked his motorcycle in almost exactly the same place.
And every single time, he walked directly to my wife Sarah’s grave.
He never brought flowers.
He never spoke to anyone.
He simply sat beside her headstone for nearly an hour, his head lowered in silence.
Then, at around 3 p.m., he would stand, walk back to his motorcycle, and leave.
The first time I noticed him, I assumed he had made a mistake.
