The man would remove his helmet, walk toward Sarah’s grave, and sit down.
He was a large man.
Very large.
He had a thick beard, tattoos covering his arms, and the kind of appearance that might make you instinctively give him plenty of space.
But there was something about the way he sat beside Sarah’s grave that didn’t seem threatening.
He looked broken.
Sometimes he would stare at her name.
Sometimes he would lower his head.
Once, I saw him wipe his eyes.
A man who looked like he could intimidate an entire room was sitting alone beside my wife’s grave, quietly crying.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
At first, I wondered whether Sarah had known him before we met.
Then I wondered whether he had been someone from the hospital.
A former patient?
A family member?
A friend?
Someone from a part of her life that I had never encountered?
