“No,” I said. “Please keep coming. She’d want that.”
He nodded. Walked to his bike. Then turned.
He rode away. I stayed. Told Sarah I was sorry. Told her I finally understood.
The next Saturday, I brought two lawn chairs. Mike was already there. We sat together. He told me about Kaylee’s dreams. Her kindness. Her strength.
This has become our ritual. Every Saturday. Me and Mike. Sitting with Sarah. Sometimes talking. Sometimes just being.
Last week, Mike brought Kaylee. She placed flowers on Sarah’s grave. Cried.
“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered. “I won’t waste the life you gave me.”
Mike’s not a stranger anymore. He’s family. He checks on my kids. Helps around the house. His wife bakes for my daughter.
We’re bound now. By Sarah. By grace. By love.
People might think it’s strange — the widow and the biker at a grave every Saturday.
