Sarah died fourteen months ago. Breast cancer. She was forty-three. We’d been married twenty years, with two kids and what most would call a good life.
She was a pediatric nurse. Volunteered at church. Drove a minivan. Her wildest act of rebellion was ordering a triple-shot latte. There was nothing in her life that connected her to the kind of man who rode a Harley and looked like he could crush a beer can with his skull.
But this stranger — this tattooed, leather-wearing biker — grieved her like she was the most important person he’d ever known. I saw it in his posture, in the way he stared at her name, as if trying to absorb something only she could give.
After three months, I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of my car and walked toward him.
He heard my footsteps but didn’t move. His hand rested on the headstone like he was anchoring himself.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice colder than I meant. “I’m Sarah’s husband. Can you tell me who you are?”
