At first, I was confused. Then I became angry. Who was he? How did he know Emily?
Why was this man showing up for her every week when some people in her own family barely came at all?
Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer. She was only forty-three.
We had been married for twenty years. Two children. A quiet home. A normal life.
At least, that was what I thought. Nothing about my wife’s life made sense with this man.
Emily had been a pediatric nurse. She volunteered at church. She drove a silver minivan and packed snacks for every school event.
Her idea of breaking the rules was ordering dessert before dinner. But this biker grieved her like he had lost someone irreplaceable.
Sometimes, from my car, I saw his shoulders shake. Sometimes, before he left, he placed one rough hand against her headstone and kept it there for several seconds.
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