He would sit cross-legged beside her headstone, hands resting on the grass, head bowed. After an hour, he’d press his palm gently to the stone, stand, and leave.
I began watching him from my car, hidden behind the row of old pines. The quiet devotion unsettled me. Who was this man? Why did he come here every week — to her?
She was the most ordinary miracle I ever knew — the kind of woman who saw goodness in everything.
But nothing about her connected to a leather-clad biker with tattooed arms and steel in his eyes.
And yet, there he was. Every Saturday. Grieving like he’d lost the love of his life.
