A motorcyclist would come to pay his respects at my wife's grave every week, and for months I had no idea who he was.

 

For six months, I observed it from my car.

The same day.

At the same time.

Every Saturday, at exactly two o'clock in the afternoon, he would arrive at the cemetery on his Harley, park near the old oak tree, and walk straight to Emily's grave.

Then he would sit by her grave for a whole hour.

She never brought flowers.

He never left a note.

He never spoke loudly enough for me to hear him.

She simply sat cross-legged on the grass, her head bowed, as if she were carrying a pain too heavy to bear.

The first time I saw him, I thought he had made a mistake.

It was a large cemetery. It was easy to mistake the graves for one another.

But he returned the following Saturday.

And the next one.

And one last one.

Week after week, this stranger mourned my wife as if she belonged to him too.

At first, I was confused.

So I got angry.

Who was he?

How did he know Emily?

Why did this man come every week when some members of his own family almost never came?

Emily had died fourteen months earlier from breast cancer.

He was only forty-three years old.

We had been married for twenty years.

Two children.

A peaceful home.

A normal life.

At least, that's what I thought.

With this man, nothing in my wife's life made sense.

Emily was a pediatric nurse.

She was a volunteer at the church.

He drove a silver van and prepared snacks for every school event.

His idea to break the rules was to order dessert before dinner.

But this biker was mourning her as if he had lost someone irreplaceable.

Sometimes, from my car, I could see his shoulders trembling.

Sometimes, before leaving, he would place a rough hand on his tombstone and hold it there for several seconds.

As if he were saying goodbye once again.

After three months, I couldn't take it anymore.

That Saturday, I got out of the car and walked towards him.

He heard my footsteps, but he didn't turn around.

His hand was still pressed against Emily's name.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice drier than I intended. "I'm Emily's husband. I think it's time you told me who you are."

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then he slowly stood up, turned towards me, and looked like a man who had been waiting for this question for six months.

Finally, he said:

"Your wife was mine..."